The Phantom of the Tournament
by ChunkyMunky241
Summary: B/Y or B/V? Who gets the girl? It may not end the way you would think. Parody of The Phantom of the Opera, but with many, many twists. Ingredients: drama, romance, mystery, humour, angst, action, and a sell-out soundtrack. *CHAPTER 10 UP*
1. Overture

THE PHANTOM OF THE TOURNAMENT  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragonball Z in any way, shape, or form. If I did, I would be rich, sitting on a big pile of money, and laughing at all of you.  
  
OVERTURE  
  
The darkness of the old tournament arena was intruded upon by the lone figure of a blue-haired woman, carrying with her the feeling of an untold loss that had been festering for years unchecked. Her footsteps echoed against the enclosed stands and walls of the old coliseum, resurfacing old memories that had been thought to be buried long ago. Her feet, seemingly of their own volition, stepped onto the tiled floor of the ring, stopping slightly to the left of the centre. The very place . . .  
  
*^*^*^*  
  
"Yamcha, don't go!" she clung to his form like a woman drowning.  
  
"Bulma," the dark haired man stated softly, "I have to go . . . these battles . . . this tour means everything. I will prove myself as a fighter . . . this could be my only chance. You know how much becoming a professional fighter in the tournament means to me. Don't make me choose between you and my dream, Bulma. Please . . ." he pleaded with his soft black eyes.  
  
"Yamcha," Bulma said sadly, "We don't know how this tour could change you . . . or how our time apart could change me. When you come back, we could be completely different people! Why can't you just stay here?" she begged from behind forming tears.  
  
He stroked her hair gently, letting the permed strands trickle between his fingers. "You know I can't do that, no matter how much I love you. I have to follow my dreams. I've been training all my life for this. I promise you . . . nothing will change. None of this will change. When I come back, whether I've made it onto a team or not, I will come back to you first. You have my word on that, Bulma," the scar on his right eye began to shimmer as a silver tear began to flow.  
  
Bulma choked back a sob as she hugged him closer to her. She knew there was no winning this argument. He had to follow his dream. She had to let him go. She stayed in his arms for a moment, absorbing everything around her and committing it to memory. Finally, she lifted her head and created a weak, sad smile on her face. "Don't forget me."  
  
He kissed her deeply, her arms entwining around his back, and his hand still in her hair, possibly for the last time. From the open entrance of the stadium, a chilling breeze blew in, ruffling their hair in a lingering caress of farewell. As they broke their embrace, Bulma's tear fell to the tiled floor, splashing with a note of finality. Yamcha gazed into her crying eyes with a look pleading forgiveness and a bit of hope for that day when he should return.  
  
"I promise . . ."  
  
*^*^*^*  
  
Five years later, a crystalline tear fell once again to the floor of the tiled arena, splashing to the ground as if still caught in a memory. Bulma looked down upon where the drop had landed, staring at it, marveling in how ironically similar that tear was to the one that had fallen that day so many years ago. Her eyes widened slightly at the onslaught of memories that attacked her from the place of reminiscence, making her back away slowly, down the stairs that led up to the elevated arena, and on to the turf below. Relaxed now that she was out of her wandering memory's reach, she walked along the ring with her hand trailing on the outer edge. But memories are very persistent..  
  
On the wall housing the stands, a flyer fluttered in a slight breeze from the unclosed entrance, capturing Bulma's attention. Not knowing exactly why she was so compelled to look upon it, she proceeded to approach it. She wished she had not.  
  
*Join up for the Grand Tour!  
  
Travel the world and achieve fame and fortune by becoming a professional tournament fighter!  
  
Take a shot at your destiny and see if it leads you to the arena!  
  
Only those brave and strong enough can become true fighters.  
  
Do you have what it takes?  
  
Find out by coming to the tryouts at-*  
  
The rest of the paper was ripped and worn from flailing in the wind for so many years and even if it had not been, the date and time of the tryouts would have meant nothing to Bulma. The only words that registered in her mind were "Grand Tour." Those words had taken away her life, her love, and her only chance at ever becoming happy in this world. The moment she had heard those words, she had known they would be trouble for her relationship with Yamcha. The eyes that had previously been shedding tears of sadness and longing now smoldered with rage.  
  
She punched the flyer taped to the wall as hard as she could.  
  
It did more damage to her hand that the wall, but it felt good to Bulma to find some way to release the anger she had kept bottled up inside. Again and again she struck at the wall, until the pain in her hand became too much and she had to cease her self-destructive actions. A trickle of blood fell from her knuckles as she pulled her hand away and it took a moment for her to realize that she was in pain.  
  
She leaned against the wall to support herself as she applied pressure to the wound. Why she had come here, she did not know. Subconsciously she had known that this would happen, that the memories would return to her at the sight of where it had all occurred. She had paid her subconscious no heed however, but whether she had been summoned here by her own volition, or some disembodied force, was unclear to her. Her hand began to throb, and her reflections were cut short as a sound other than that of the emptiness of the stadium emerged.  
  
A breeze blew from the open entrance, making the dust from the arena's years of decay spring back to life and swirl in the gently whipping wind. Her hair began to thrash wildly around her, lifting off her neck and allowing the finer hairs to stand on end, and for some reason, she was acutely aware of the beating of her heart, though the actual sound in her ears was lost to the song the wind sang.  
  
It laughed at her.  
  
The sound was a chuckle, like that which is made when one is watching the antics of a favourite pet as it does something silly or stupid. The low pitch and unseen origins made gooseflesh form on Bulma's arms as she frantically searched around the arena for the one who found her self- inflicted pain worthy of such mirth. It would seem she was alone, but the laughter and an undeniable sense of *someone* made her believe otherwise. The wind let out one more titanic gust, and then, much like a candle flickers wildly before it is extinguished, stopped dead. The laughter ceased, and it was a few moments before Bulma realized that someone, or some*thing,* had shut the door, sealing her inside in the process. Then she was left to the silence of the room.  
  
A faint rustle in the upper level of the stands caught her attention, but when she turned her head, it had already disappeared. That feeling that someone was watching her increased as she heard the same sound on the other side of the arena, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling. Her heart beat faster and a chill went up her spine as the sound seemed to be all around her, but could only be isolated in random directions, until, like the wind, it abruptly stopped. She was left with a silence that was only permeated by the beating of her heart . . . and footsteps coming towards her.  
  
She whirled her head in the direction of the approaching steps, but only found the emptiness of the coliseum. She felt a presence in the room, inky like the darkness and just as chilling. It swirled and flowed around the arena, circling around her body until it felt like she was surrounded. A voice deep and grating, yet underlain with a strange tenderness and vulnerability, emerged from the presence to whisper in her ear, though there seemed to be no one in the room but herself.  
  
"You should bend your wrist more to the left. You won't hurt your knuckles so much."  
  
She jumped at the sound, still feeling the breath tickling her ear. There *was* someone else here.  
  
"Who are you?!" she demanded with frightened eyes and falling into a weak fighting stance.  
  
Once again, the presence laughed. She felt as though it was floating around the dark arena, weaving through the darkness like adept creature of the night. If it could be seen through blackness, Bulma's face would have appeared pale and drained of all colour. Her breathing quickened and she held a hand to her chest to try to calm her wild pulse. The wind whispered through its laughter from behind her, making another shiver trickle down her spine.  
  
"That's for me to know."  
  
The tone of voice that this strange presence still remained that dark and ominous timbre, but for some reason, this strange mirth that it emitted tapered Bulma's fear. It seemed to posses an unusual dark humour that was almost contagious. The way she could feel it circling around her and chuckling in her ear made her feel as though she were only being teased.  
  
Her breathing calmed and she gave a wry chuckle. "And for me to find out, right?"  
  
"Perhaps," the room echoed with the low rumble of laughter.  
  
Bulma had to smile in spite of herself. After all, she was talking to an empty room. "Well I'm glad that you find my pain so amusing then. Now if you would just open the door, I-"  
  
"It is not your pain I find so amusing, Woman," the room seemed to smile back through the night's darkness. "You have great potential, but your technique is so pitiful it's laughable."  
  
"Hey!" Bulma yelled back to the room indignantly. "I didn't come here to be insulted by an empty room, you know!"  
  
Another chuckle resonated from around her. "No, you didn't," the emptiness stated.  
  
The fear returned to Bulma now. It felt as though he knew exactly why she was here, what she was thinking, how she felt at that very moment. Not for the first time since she had entered the stadium that night she wondered whether this was all a dream.  
  
"I can teach you, you know," the voice silkily enveloped her ears. "I can make you faster . . . stronger . . . I can make you the greatest fighter since the tournament was invented. You could rule the fighting world. You have only but to ask for my assistance," it tempted.  
  
"I . . . I could enter the tournaments?" Bulma stammered, dumbfounded at the idea.  
  
"Yes . . ." the voice assured her. "Can't you just hear the crowd cheering for you? Can you see how they adore you? Can you feel the power you have over them? You are their queen . . . you are the champion of the world . . . you have no limits to your power . . . the power that I give you . . . "  
  
"I . . . I could be fighter . . ." Bulma said to herself almost dreamily.  
  
"Yes," the room said to her again. "Listen . . .they are calling to you, cheering for you."  
  
The room seemed to come alive with the sounds of a roaring crowd, exalting a name above all others. Was she just imagining this? Or was this some trick that the voice had created to affect her judgement? What was that name they were cheering?  
  
*Bulma! Bulma! Bulma!*  
  
If she entered the tournament, she could see Yamcha again. She could take back that which time had taken from her. Her dreams could coincide with her love's now and they could be together at last. She could love once more. The choice was no contest.  
  
"Will you train me?"  
  
She could almost feel the room smiling at her knowingly. "Of course, Woman."  
  
"Great! I'll just-"  
  
"-But you must promise me one thing . . ."  
  
Bulma cringed at the word 'promise'. Promises meant deceptions, lies . . . they were never good. She looked up around her unsure, but nodded her head as her resolution returned at the thought of seeing her Yamcha again.  
  
"Anything."  
  
The room chuckled once more. "Good, Woman. You must promise never to tell anyone of our sessions, of who I am, or that you even have these lessons. No one must know. No one. Do you swear it?"  
  
"Uh . . . sure," Bulma said, confused by this sudden secrecy. "But how will we be able to have lessons without anyone seeing us and finding out?"  
  
"Meet me in the fourth training room beneath the arena at sunset tomorrow and every night after that. The doors will be locked, but if you knock seven times slowly, I will unlock it for you," the room rang mysteriously.  
  
"Sunset tomorrow. Got it," Bulma smiled.  
  
The entrance to the stadium opened with a click and the harsh artificial lights of the city flooded the room in the shape of a slanted rectangle on the floor. The wind from outside blew into the room and Bulma was surprised to find that it was colder than that which the eerie voice had seemed to emerge from. She pulled her jacket closer around her as she stepped towards the door and hesitated for a moment.  
  
"I'll see you then I guess."  
  
The once seemingly omnipresent voice now appeared to be focused in one place up in the higher level of the stands. Bulma could just make out a dark figure standing before a shadow, but could not judge anything more than the fact that it was there and it was a person. The figure seemed to melt into the shadow as it spoke in a tone that was frightening and strangely alluring at the same time.  
  
"Until the sun sets." 


	2. Think of Me and Run

Disclaimer: If I owned Dragonball Z, or even The Phantom of the Opera for that matter, do you think I would be writing fanfiction?  
  
  
  
Think of Me and Run  
  
  
  
  
  
Think of me  
  
  
  
Think of me fondly when we've said goodbye  
  
Remember me  
  
Once in a while; please promise me you'll try  
  
When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free  
  
If you ever find a moment . . .  
  
Spare a thought for me  
  
  
  
  
  
"Movie Star Resigns From Cinema"  
  
"Another Claims Murderer Sighting"  
  
"New Cooking Appliance Hopes To Change Future of Culinary Art"  
  
"Are Children's Television Shows Too Adult?"  
  
Goku folded his Paper in half across his lap. The headlines got more boring every day and these had to be the worst of the bunch. If only he could find a fighter for his team that was real media material. Sure, his fighters were good, unprecedented even, but he needed something to gain publicity, to make more people come to the tournaments to see the fights. So far, these last few tournaments on the Grand Tour only turned up a hundred or so people, which was insulting. Tien and Chaozu threatened to quit if more people did not come to see them fight, and Krillin was just plain bored with his teammates. He felt like they were getting too routine and could predict each other's moves easily. He was not too far off. But where was he going to get any new members that could spice things up like that? All the contestants who had any charisma or media appeal were too weak to throw a decent punch, let alone win a battle.  
  
Goku looked to his wife Chichi sitting next to him. Though their team had Goku's name on it, Chichi was the one who really made the head decisions. She had a unique eye for spotting fresh personalities and had been the one who had agreed to take Yamcha and Krillin on their team five years ago over a few others who were stronger, reasoning that their lighthearted personalities would pay much more than their strength. Not to mention the fact that with Goku's training, their strength problems would be pretty much out the window. She had been right, of course, and both the bald- headed ex-monk and the scarred ex-desert bandit had become very valuable members of their team.  
  
Right now she looked as bored as he did.  
  
Tien threw another punch at the rookie he was fighting, sending the poor fool skidding across the floor and halfway off the ring. Tien did not bother to waste his energy to finish him off and just tapped him with his foot. The other fighter fell unceremoniously out of the ring and out of the tryouts. Tien looked down at the mangled heap for a moment as the medics carried it out on a stretcher before stalwartly walking down the stairs to wait for his next opponent.  
  
"Yeah! Go Tien!" little Chaozu cheered to his oldest friend enthusiastically.  
  
Tien frowned. "I don't need any congratulations for beating that newbie. I need a challenge."  
  
"Don't worry, Tien. I'm sure one will show up this year. I just know it," the little doll-faced fighter reassured the triclops.  
  
"I hope you're right."  
  
Goku put his head in his hands at the result of the last fight. This seemed hopeless. Each fighter was worse than the last, and the first had not been able to last more than two minutes. He turned to his left to speak to Yamcha.  
  
"Who's next on the list, Yamcha?"  
  
"Uh well, Coach-" he started.  
  
Goku held up his hand. "Please, Yamcha. It's been five years now. Call me Goku," the coach smiled benevolently to his pupil. "Some coaches like it when you address them formally, but I like to be friends with my team members."  
  
"Okay, Co-uh, Goku."  
  
"So then, who's next?" Goku got back on the original subject.  
  
"Well . . .that was it," Yamcha admitted sadly. "It looks like we won't be getting any new recruits this year either. That guy was the last one on the list," he said pointing to the carnage that lay on the quickly moving stretcher on its way to the medical facilities.  
  
Goku's normally cheerful face fell. "I guess Chichi won't be cooking a "Welcoming the New Guy Party" meal today then," he looked to his helpful housewife, who at present, was asleep. "You'd better tell Krillin that he's not going to get another fight today."  
  
"Yeah," Yamcha said in a depressed manner. He really wanted to have another rookie. Then he would not be the new guy anymore.  
  
"Hey Krillin!" Yamcha shouted from the stands to the arena, arousing Chichi with a snort in mid-snore. The small, bald man was walking towards the arena while tightening his loose belt around his fighting uniform when his head snapped up at the sudden address. Yamcha continued.  
  
"You can go home now, buddy! There aren't any other fighters left!"  
  
Krillin dropped his jovial expression. "What? Aww man! That's it? But we didn't even sign on any new ones!"  
  
Goku sighed as he stood up from his seat, picking up the now drowsy, but awake, Chichi. "Come on, Chichi. We're done for the day." Chichi mumbled something in response in that incoherent language that only newly roused sleepers speak.  
  
Tien stuffed his hands in his loose green fighting trousers that were his usual outfit and walked towards the exit with Chaozu floating along behind while Krillin started packing his duffel bag.  
  
"WAIT!"  
  
Nearly every head in the room snapped up at the cry, even Chichi's. From the side entrance a woman with long blue hair trailing behind her in a high ponytail ran to the ring, her attire clearly showing she was ready for a fight.  
  
"Wait," she panted when she got there, resting her hands on her knees as she caught her breath. Her pastel pink shirt rose and fell with her laboured breathing and contrasted pleasantly against her loose navy-blue sweat pants with their bottoms tucked into her stylish suede boots. "I . . . I came here . . . for . . . for the tryouts . . ." she huffed.  
  
"But . . . but you're a girl," Tien pointed out.  
  
"My, aren't you observant," the woman teased him lightheartedly after catching her breath. Tien blushed. "Yeah, so, I'm a girl. It's not unheard of to have women fight in the tournaments, you know. Android Eighteen did it," she stated matter-of-factly.  
  
Krillin blushed a bit at her mention of the beautiful, blonde, and championship fighter Android Eighteen, but quickly recovered and called up to the stands where Goku was escorting his wife out.  
  
"Hey, Goku! Should I fight her, or should we just make her leave?" his hands cupped around his mouth to make the sound carry better. The woman gave him a nasty glare and Krillin quickly covered with, "No offense, but you don't really look like much of a fighter, and I have a heavy schedule to stick to. I've got places to be, you know?"  
  
"Well," she huffed indignantly, "excuse me for trying to destroy your tenuous grasp on a social life, Mr. Heavy Schedule," sarcasm dripped from her tongue.  
  
"Whoa, boys!" Krillin laughed lightly. "This girl's got a mouth on her! We'd better watch out!"  
  
Krillin's amiable disposition rubbed off a bit on the woman, and she found herself laughing right along with the others. Goku chuckled as well as he called down to them.  
  
"Go ahead and fight her, Krillin. I want to see what she can do."  
  
"Great," the woman said enthusiastically as she stretched out her legs and started warming up while Krillin set his duffel bag back down. He cracked his knuckles as he walked up the stairs to the elevated ring, the woman following behind him.  
  
Little Chaozu drifted back towards the ring to referee the fight while Krillin got into a classic fighting stance, his feet apart, arms bent with one in front, the other in back, both hands shaped like loose claws prepared to become fists in the blink of an eye. The woman, surprisingly, stood simply with her arms crossed over her chest with her feet apart, apparently completely unguarded.  
  
*This girl's got to be joking,* Krillin thought as he lowered his head slightly to magnify is fighting potential in that position, the movement making the sunlight glare off of his bald head. *She's not even prepared to defend herself! And she expects to join the team with that kind of technique?*  
  
The woman simply smirked in a disturbingly knowing way, as if she could hear the thoughts right from one's head. All present in the room stared at this foolish woman who insisted on letting her guard down before a fight. Goku took his seat next to Chichi again and leaned forward with his hands clasped under his chin in a pondering manner. *She's either very stupid, or very, very good,* he decided.  
  
Chaozu blinked and shook his head, taking his attention off of the foolish woman to begin his refereeing duties. "On my mark," he started in his very tenor voice.  
  
Krillin adjusted his stance just slightly, a small cloud of dust rising up from where his boot scraped across the white-tiled ring.  
  
"Get set," Chaozu raised his arm in preparation for its signifying descent.  
  
Goku narrowed his eyes in thought as the woman still refused to put up any type of defense when the start of the fight was mere seconds away. Sitting beside him, Chichi, now awake, chewed her nail in thought as well, for, though not nearly as strong or experienced as the actual fighters on her team, she did know quite a bit about fighting herself, and this was definitely not how it was supposed to be done. Down at ringside, all three of Tien's eyes fixed in a frown as he pondered this new development, though he secretly hoped that the woman would offer at least a decent fight; Krillin had been becoming far too cocky in his opinion as of late. Back up in the stands, Yamcha's brows furrowed in bit of confusion as he thought over and over, *Where have I seen that woman before?*  
  
"Go!"  
  
Krillin launched up not one second after the falling of Chaozu's arm signified the beginning of the match, flying in a blur of orange and blue uniform with his hand preparing a punch. He struck at the woman, but surprisingly, the once seemingly defenseless fighter snapped up an arm in a perfectly timed block, though she had not moved from her original stance. Caught slightly off-guard, Krillin attacked with his left arm to her stomach, and as he expected, his fist was caught in a classic maneuver. Before the woman had time to react, he brought his right leg up in a very quick kick, an unanticipated move for his part, since he normally would have attacked with another punch from the right. The woman was sent sprawling to the other side of the ring, almost over the edge, though she almost instantly regained her composure and gracefully flipped back into a standing position, glaring blue fire at the little ex-monk.  
  
Her next move came so quickly that Krillin almost did not see it, and would not have, had he not been such an experienced fighter. She swung out a blue-trousered leg at his head, and, already expecting the block with his left hand, threw a punch to his unprotected side. It connected perfectly, and Krillin found himself in her position prior as she used her left leg to kick him to the other side of the ring. He skidded a bit on his side, part of his face bouncing a slightly on the journey, before he rolled to a stop. He immediately kicked himself up, wiping a bit of blood that trickled down the side of his mouth, compliments of his encounter with the floor. The frown that formed on his countenance seemed incredibly out of place for the normally blithe man.  
  
The woman grinned evilly, slowly raising up her hand and drawing her fingers toward herself in a taunting motion. "Bring it on, little man," she said derisively.  
  
If there was one thing Krillin hated, it was having his stature laughed at. He growled and sped across the ring to his opponent, gathering his energy into his fists in order to finish the fight with his next move. The wind rushed across his smooth head as his uniform fluttered a bit behind him, tugging at the front of his frame. His footsteps came in such rapid succession that it became difficult to determine where one ended and the other began, where one foot lifted and the other descended. All five and a half pairs of eyes nervously watched the scene unfold before them, the only other movement in the room besides Krillin's attack being the dust rising from where he had launched himself. He could feel himself cutting through the air like a speeding bullet and he pulled his arm back in preparation to strike as his target came closer and closer. Suddenly he made his move, his fist traveling with such speed and strength that no mere human could survive it.  
  
It passed right through her.  
  
Before Krillin had time to realize his blunder of attacking a mere after- image, or time to cease his stampeding steps, a petite, booted foot swung gracefully in front of his feet, causing him to stumble over the edge of the ring. He flailed his arms comically as he lost his balance and plummeted to the turf around the outer area. Then it suddenly occurred to him that he could fly.  
  
Krillin wiped the sweat off his brow as he hovered a mere four inches above the ground, laughing in a tired, relieved way. He turned his head from the view of the short, well-watered grass with a cocky smirk on his face.  
  
"Wow, you almost got me there!" he teased with sarcasm as he folded his now controlled arms over his chest smugly. "Too bad I've got so much more experience than you that-ugh!"  
  
His victory speech was cut short as the woman landed on his back with both feet, sending him to the ground he had so narrowly avoided previously. Chaozu gasped; Yamcha did a double take; Chichi's eyes widened; Goku laughed; Tien blinked thrice. The woman modestly held up the victory sign to the stands while her feet stayed planted on his back. Krillin coughed up a bit of turf.  
  
Absolute silence permeated the arena for a moment.  
  
"Goku! Sign her up now!" Chichi screamed as she shook her husband by the collar of his shirt.  
  
"B-but Chichi," he stuttered as his head jostled back and forth, "that's your job . . ."  
  
Chichi paused in mid-shake. "Oh. Right." She barely finished her statement before rushing down to ringside in a blur of her purple over- dress and pink pants.  
  
The woman blinked as Chichi suddenly appeared next to her, a trail of dust slowly settling to the ground behind the wife of Goku. Chichi vigorously shook the new comer's hand with a smile that split her face from ear to ear. "Congratulations!" she said, still pumping her arm up and down. "When can we sign you up? Now? Is now good?"  
  
The woman's blue eyes sparkled as she laughed. "Sure," she said.  
  
Krillin coughed again. "Could you get off of me now?" he said exasperatedly.  
  
The woman giggled with her hand over her mouth in an abashed manner. "Hehe, sorry about that," she said through her snickers as she leapt off of him.  
  
"Yeah, sure you are," Krillin said, getting up as he brushed himself off with his hand. "You're probably about as sorry as-" whatever comment he was about to make as his attention was suddenly drawn to the entrance of the outdoor arena. "H-hi, Eighteen," he stuttered with a blush.  
  
"Krillin," the blonde fighter acknowledged flatly with a nod of her head as she stepped onto the grassy turf in her usual attire: black and white striped, long-sleeved shirt, black T-shirt, blue jean capris, and black buckled shoes.  
  
"So," he said slyly through the slight pain he felt as a remnant of he latest defeat, "have you come to your senses and decided to switch teams?"  
  
"Hmph," Eighteen smirked with a cocked brow. "Hardly. I would never pass up the chance to lick you, Baldy. You know that."  
  
Krillin laughed and put his hand behind his shiny head. "Well it never hurts to try."  
  
"It does with me, little man," Eighteen mock glared at him.  
  
Chichi smiled at the successful female fighter. "Hello Eighteen. What might you be doing here? Trying to scope out the competition? Not that you need to, of course. Last I heard, you were doing fairly well for yourself, girl."  
  
Eighteen gave a smug but friendly look to the self-appointed manager of the Dragon team. "Just trying to see which rookie you're signing on to be a challe-what are you doing here?" her blue gaze rested upon the new woman.  
  
"I'm the rookie who's signing on to be a challenge for you," the azure- haired woman smirked to the android in a familiar manner.  
  
"Yes, well," Chichi interjected before the woman could invoke the volatile blonde's notoriously short temper, "I'd better be getting her to the papers. Wouldn't want her to run away from me now." She put her hand around the woman's shoulders and practically dragged her to the fighters' waiting area where her papers would be. Eighteen followed of her own volition, despite the lack of invitation. Strangely enough, the woman's open challenge seemed to have no effect on her, though normally she would have just punched her out.  
  
Krillin blinked a bit at Eighteen's abnormal behaviour, but quickly recovered and, upon seeing her leave, hunched over a bit in pain, having now the opportunity to drop his charade.  
  
"Come on, tough guy," Goku said supporting the bald fighter on his shoulder, now down at ringside with a curious looking Yamcha. It was a rather comical sight, seeing how Goku happened to be at least two feet taller than him.  
  
Krillin smiled weakly through his wounded ego. "Thanks, Goku."  
  
"Don't mention it, pal," the quintessential vacuous smile returned to the wild-haired manager.  
  
Tien and Chaozu led the way to the medical bay, where countless other fighters now lay, having tried out of the team and failed with bloody noses, broken limbs, and other . . . less dignified injuries. Yamcha followed, also pulling Krillin along with the monk's arm around his shoulders, but giving a last curious look to the fighters' waiting area.  
  
  
  
Chaozu wrapped another bandage on Krillin's midsection as Tien looked at his bald comrade with a bit of humour.  
  
"I can't believe you got beaten up by a girl," the triclops snickered. "How do expect to get a date if you lose fights to women?"  
  
"Hey, at least I try to find women! You spend all your time with the equivalent of a porcelain baby do-ouch!" he yelped as Chaozu pulled a bandage a little too tight.  
  
"Watch it, Krillin," he tried to look threatening through his rosy cheeks and alabaster skin.  
  
Goku chuckled at the feeling of love and camaraderie in the room as he dabbed some peroxide onto a cotton swab. "Come on, guys," he smiled to his team, "stop fighting. Teammates are supposed to support each other through thick and thin. And not only are we teammates, but we're friends. That makes support even more important."  
  
A cricket chirped somewhere in the background.  
  
"Ouch! Chaozu!" Krillin broke the silence and rubbed his arm where the circulation was slowly being cut off by an overly tight bandage. "Come on," Krillin pleaded with the little doll-faced fighter, "I'm okay, really. Just a little scratched up."  
  
"Yeah you're scratched up. Did you have to hit every rock on your way out of the ring?" Chaozu slapped an adhesive bandage on a particularly nasty laceration. "Coach Goku, could you help me with these cuts?"  
  
"Sure Chaozu, but I wish you would just call me Goku. Coach is so formal," he said as he walked over to Krillin, peroxide and cotton swabs in hand. As he leaned down to dab an exceptionally deep cut, something kept his eyes hooked to it. Neglected of medical attention, the cut released a single drop of crimson blood that leaked from the wound at the top of his head and trickled down the side of his face. Goku's eyes followed.  
  
*"What was that?!"  
  
"The wall's been blown in! Someone's attacking us!"*  
  
The red bead rolled past Krillin's eye, slowly bending its course as it trailed across the convexity of his cheek. It fell past his ear and flowed to his jaw-line, where it rested like an inverted icicle on the verge of falling.  
  
*"My son! He took my son!"  
  
"Leave him! We have to get out of here!"  
  
"I will not leave my son!"  
  
"He'll kill us all if we don't leave now!"  
  
"FATHER!"*  
  
The blood finally relinquished its hold on Krillin's face as it plummeted to the ground below. A glint of the fading sunlight from outside reflected off the crimson droplet before it collided with the tile floor, shattering upward in a rain of scarlet crystals.  
  
*"Maiza, take Kakarot out of here!"  
  
"But what about you?!"  
  
"I'm staying. We can't let that monster win! We must fight!"  
  
"But-"  
  
"GO!"*  
  
All he could see was red. Blood was everywhere; he was surrounded by it, breathing it in. The stench made it hard for him to breathe as he lay there, listening as screams resonated through the air. He had the distinct feeling that most of them were his. The dead do not scream.  
  
"Uh . . . Goku?"  
  
The normally happy manager was brought back to the present only to be greeted with a large hand waving in front of his face. He blinked at Tien as the hand finally stopped.  
  
"Huh?" Goku questioned eloquently.  
  
"Here, let me take that from you," the triclops said as he grabbed the cotton swab and the bottle of peroxide which was down leaking onto the floor in a steady stream, a result of Goku's loose grip. Goku shook his head and cleared out the remains of the strange images that had just passed through his head.  
  
"Hey, has anyone seen Yamcha?" Tien asked as he poured a bit more peroxide on the swab.  
  
Goku looked around the room. "Didn't he come in with us?"  
  
"Well he's not here now," Chaozu said, finishing up another bandage.  
  
Krillin looked puzzled. "I wonder where he could have-darn it, Tien! That stuff stings!"  
  
  
  
  
  
"Sign here," Chichi pointed to one of the many dotted lines on the large form, "and here . . . address here . . . phone number . . . another signature here . . . parent's phone number and address . . . license plates . . . signature . . . your great grandmother's maiden name . . . your name in printing . . . your weight on the moon in kilograms . . ."  
  
"Hold on a minute . . ." the blue-haired woman frantically scratched her pen on the form.  
  
Eighteen gave an unlady-like snort from inside the closed doorway. "She's only messing with you. All you really need is your signature, address, and phone number."  
  
Chichi playfully glared at the blonde fighter from the Kame team. "Spoilsport."  
  
The blue-haired woman wiped her brow as she finished the form. "There. That looks like it's about done."  
  
"Good," Chichi stated briskly. "Now for the rules. You probably know all the rules in the ring, but there are a few rules of how the fighters should act outside the arena."  
  
"Okay then, shoot," the blue-haired woman smiled.  
  
Chichi cleared her throat. "Rule number one: no bribing the judges."  
  
"Understandable," the woman said.  
  
"Rule number two: no tampering with the line-up."  
  
An affirmative nod.  
  
"Rule number three: no dating members of the teams."  
  
The woman blinked her blue eyes at her. "Why not?"  
  
"Because," Eighteen interjected, "if a member were to date another, they would do all that was within their power to keep from fighting each other."  
  
"Yes," Chichi nodded, her black bun bouncing slightly with the movement. "And that could lead to bribing judges, tampering with the line-up, losing matches on purpose, or sabotage of the other teams."  
  
"Let me guess," the woman said, "losing matches on purpose and sabotage are the next two rules."  
  
"Right," Chichi said.  
  
"Oh, by the way," the woman turned her head to look at the surly blonde in the doorway, "Eighteen, how's that arm doing?"  
  
"Fine. You did a good job on it. Much better than those darn medics could."  
  
"You're a doctor?" Chichi asked her newest investment.  
  
"No. Just a technological genius."  
  
Chichi blinked a bit before the realization hit her and she felt rather silly. "Oh, yes, of course. You know, I don't think I'll ever get used to having androids in the tournaments."  
  
"You'd better get used to it, Chichi," Eighteen smirked. "You'll have to fight three of us when you go against Kame team."  
  
Chichi rubbed her temples despairingly. "Don't remind me."  
  
"Have a rough few years against the androids?" the woman asked inquisitively.  
  
Chichi sighed. "Well, Sixteen's easy enough to beat if you distract him with small children or animals, but Eighteen and her brother are a different story."  
  
"Yeah, but they were designed to fight as a team. If you split them up, they shouldn't be that hard to fight. It's all a matter of divide and conquer."  
  
"Bulma!" Eighteen shouted indignantly. "Don't go giving away our weaknesses to her!"  
  
"Why not?" the woman asked lightheartedly. "After all, I am on her team now. I don't see why I can't give her a few tips on strategy against our enemies."  
  
Chichi mulled the new information in her head. "Bulma? Bulma Briefs?"  
  
"The one and only," Bulma said modestly.  
  
"I've heard about you. You designed the androids, right?" Chichi asked.  
  
"Well, not exactly," Bulma said. "Dr. Gero originally designed them, but my father and I modified them a bit. You know, removing high explosives from their bodies, taking out the microchip that gave them a thirst for destruction. All the routine maintenance things."  
  
"This is wonderful!" Chichi stood up excitedly. "You probably know all about their strengths and weaknesses from their designs! This is pure gold! There's no way we could lose this year!"  
  
"Actually, the probability of us losing is still-"  
  
"Oh, don't ruin it for me, you priceless little gem you!" Chichi pinched Bulma's cheek happily.  
  
"Ow . . ." Bulma rubbed her cheek a bit, and decided to change the subject before Eighteen decided to follow her instincts and blast the room into oblivion, if her glare was any indication.  
  
"So, do we have the introductions now, or do we have other plans for that?"  
  
"Well," Chichi pondered, "normally we would have a party after the signups, but it's getting late, and Master Roshi said we should have the welcoming party with his team too. I hear they got quite a few new fighters, eh Eighteen?"  
  
Eighteen folded her arms over her chest and closed her eyes with disdain. "They're still all just a bunch of weaklings. I think Master Roshi's eyesight is going."  
  
Chichi laughed. "That's not the only thing. Last I heard, he spent an entire day trying to remember where the bathroom was in his own house."  
  
Eighteen huffed. "It's a good thing we have someone as organized as Launch helping the old man out. Too bad she's such an unbelievable ditz, though."  
  
"Well," Bulma laughed a bit, "I can't wait for that welcoming party. It sounds like all the teams are just one big, dysfunctional family."  
  
It was Chichi's turn to laugh. "That's a new way of putting it, but yes, I guess we are. Speaking of family, it's about time I fed my husband. You know how bad he can get when he doesn't get his food," Chichi smiled to Eighteen.  
  
"Don't remind me," the android grimaced. "The echoes resonated through the city for hours. I don't know of anyone else who has such an annoying whine."  
  
"How late is it?" Bulma asked Chichi.  
  
"I'm not sure, but it looks like the sun is setting," Chichi separated some of the blinds on the small window in the room.  
  
"Sunset?" Bulma stood up. "Well, I've got to get going now. We're done here, right?"  
  
"Right," Chichi said cheerfully, but slightly curious as to where her new financial venture was in such a hurry to get to.  
  
"When's that party?" Bulma called to Chichi from the doorway.  
  
"A week from today."  
  
"Thank you!" Bulma rushed out of the room in a blur of long, blue hair. There was a muffled "oomph!" as she shoved the door open, but she paid it little attention as she dashed toward the exit.  
  
As her footsteps receded, the door slowly creaked closed, revealing a very disheveled, and very flattened, Yamcha. Now registering what he had just overheard from the waiting area, and very confused to boot, he croaked out one word:  
  
" . . . Bulma?"  
  
WHACK!  
  
Chichi hummed a happy little tune as she opened the door, staring dreamy- eyed at the now signed form that legally bound Bulma to her. Her feet practically skipped across the floor as she headed toward the medical bay where she knew a hungry husband awaited her.  
  
Once again the door closed and Yamcha looked even flatter, if that were possible. He staggered to his feet, however, and managed to stand for a full ten seconds before having to repeat the process. The door opened yet again, and Yamcha winced, raising his arms in an effort to shield himself from the on-coming blow. Fortunately for him, the door was not opened so hastily this time.  
  
Eighteen stepped out of the room with that ever-present stoic look on her face, though the few who were able to read into those cold, blue eyes would be able to tell that she was thoughtful. *I wonder why Bulma ran out so fast,* she raised her finger to her lips pensively. She stood there for a moment, simply thinking, until a whimper came from behind the door. Curious, Eighteen peeked around it to see Yamcha, still cowering from behind the door. She rolled her eyes and walked out, but not before punching him in the face and knocking him unconscious.  
  
"Weakling," she muttered.  
  
  
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you to those who reviewed! I hope this chapter was to your liking, since the only enjoyment I get out of this is the positive feedback, or even the constructive criticism. I know I bashed Yamcha and Krillin a bit, but hey . . . I'm sure they don't mind terribly, and it appeals to my twisted sense of humour. Unfortunately, I'm only human and can't update as soon as I would like to, due to the fact that the next chapter isn't even written yet o_O. I hope you will all be patient with me. I'll try to make it worth the wait. Until then!  
  
~Chunks  
  
And thanks to Jason for helping me figure out how to do all of this! Technology scares me. 


	3. Angel of Music er, Fighting and a ...

Disclaimer: I don't own it okay! Do you have to go and rub it in?!  
  
  
  
Angel of Music . . . er, Fighting . . . and a Midnight Escapade  
  
  
  
Where in the world have you been hiding?  
  
Really, you were perfect  
  
I only wish I knew your secret  
  
Who is this new tutor?  
  
  
  
  
  
"And just where are you going?" Eighteen asked calmly, also effectively sealing off the exit for the rushing Bulma. Her feet skidded on the floor for a bit before the blue-haired rookie was able to bring herself to a stop, fortunately before she barreled into the impassive Eighteen. The blonde's arm crossed over her chest, impatiently awaiting an answer.  
  
"Come on, Eighteen," Bulma panted, "I'm going to be late."  
  
The android's eyes narrowed. "Late for what?"  
  
"Eighteen, this isn't funny," Bulma tried to find away around the blonde fighter, but the entrance was too small for her to escape, and it did not look like Eighteen was going to move anytime soon. "I really have to go," she pleaded.  
  
"Where," Eighteen demanded. When Bulma refused to give up the struggle, she barked out, "I'm not moving until you answer a few questions."  
  
"Please," Bulma implored, "just let me go."  
  
"No," she said like a command that could not be refused.  
  
Bulma gave a resigned sigh and slumped against the wall. "Fine. Ask away."  
  
"Where are you going in such a hurry?"  
  
Bulma put her hand over her eyes exasperatedly. "I can't tell you."  
  
"You'd better tell me," Eighteen said in a deceivingly calm voice, "or you'll not only be late, but physically incapable of going."  
  
Bulma's head snapped up. "You wouldn't," she challenged.  
  
Eighteen did not respond, but her frown increased as her sculpted brows drew together over her icy eyes.  
  
Bulma shook her head despairingly. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed and she matched Eighteen glare for glare. "You must promise not to tell anyone, or so help me, I'll deactivate you."  
  
Taken aback by her harsh statement, and even more by the realization that Bulma was perfectly capable of doing so, Eighteen reluctantly nodded an affirmative.  
  
Bulma took a deep breath and paused for a moment before saying, "I'm going to see my trainer."  
  
Eighteen hmphed. "So? Why should that be kept a secret?" her eyes glinted mischievously. "Are you having an affair with him or something?"  
  
Bulma blushed beat-red at her suggestion. "No! Of course not! How could you even think that?"  
  
Eighteen ignored her question and smirked impishly. "So, is he cute?"  
  
"I am not having an affair with my trainer!" Bulma got considerably flustered at Eighteen's roguish persistence. "I've never even seen him!"  
  
The android's blue eyes blinked in a confused manner. "You've never seen him? Then . . . then how . . . how does he train you?"  
  
"Verbally," Bulma said, annoyed.  
  
Eighteen looked at her incredulously. "How does that work?"  
  
"I'm not really sure," Bulma looked at the floor.  
  
"What do you mean, you're not sure?" Eighteen demanded, impatient with her cryptic answers and her evasive attitude. "I just saw Krillin get carried to the med. lab thanks to you! Obviously his training works, because two months ago when I came for repairs on my arm, you couldn't swat a fly! How is it that the girliest girl in town can turn into Miss Rookie- of-the-Year in just two months? What the heck kind of training are you getting? What goes on at those little sessions of yours?"  
  
Bulma lifted her head from the floor and rested her gaze just past Eighteen, who stood tapping her foot, her cobalt eyes becoming unfocused, as if she were in her own world. "It's . . . strange," she searched for the word, though seemingly unsatisfied, continued, "I fight, and he directs me. I feel him . . .all around me, guiding me. Every time I fight, it feels like he's always there with me . . . like he's here with me now."  
  
Eighteen cocked an eyebrow. "So you are having an affair with him."  
  
"No!" Bulma denied vehemently.  
  
"So then what's with the touchy-feely stuff?" Eighteen put her hands on her hips suspiciously.  
  
"I can't really explain it," Bulma said, closing her eyes as if to place the feeling. "It's almost as if he's a ghost or . . . or an angel or something. But," she let out a small laugh, "if he's an angel, I wouldn't be surprised if the reason he's here on Earth is because he got kicked out. He has to be the most arrogant piece of work I've ever met . . ."  
  
"Ghost? Angel? Aren't you a little old for fairytales like that?" Eighteen belittled her friend.  
  
"Maybe," Bulma said, "but that doesn't change the fact that I'm late for my session." Before Eighteen could get in another word on the subject, Bulma shoved past her friend, taking full advantage of the time it took Eighteen to digest all the information she had just received. She ran towards the parking lot on swift feet, but stopped to wave to Eighteen, just to show that there were no hard feelings. "I'll see you later, Eighteen!" she called to her.  
  
As Eighteen opened her mouth to give an indignant reply for being blown off, something stopped her short. Looking at her blue-haired friend, a strange vision came upon her, and she saw the bright blue eyes she was so familiar with darken to sunken, black pits of despair. The warm radiance that Bulma so easily cast about her with her friendly manner suddenly grew frigid and stagnant, and the amiable smile on her rosy face abruptly took the likeness of a horrified scream upon a dead skull.  
  
"Are you sure you don't have any more, Chichi?"  
  
Eighteen snapped out of her daze at the sound of Goku's whining. She blinked and looked where she had seen Bulma last before that strange vision had appeared, but the rookie was gone. Not one to trust something she could not prove had happened, Eighteen did not dwell on it. A light mist was beginning to settle in as the sun set and could easily have been the reason for such a bizarre hallucination. She turned her blonde head toward the sniveling of her rival team's coach.  
  
"Yes I'm sure, Goku," Chichi said to her husband exasperatedly waving her hands for emphasis. "You've eaten all the food I had in my capsules. You'll just have to wait until we get home after we pick up Gohan from his lessons."  
  
"But I'm hungry now!" he complained.  
  
"Quit your whining!" both Eighteen and Chichi reprimanded simultaneously. Chichi suddenly turned to the owner of the new voice and, upon seeing Eighteen standing at the open entrance with the cold wind teasing her flaxen locks, suddenly went matronly on her.  
  
"Eighteen! What are you doing out by the door like that without a sweater? Here, you can ride home with us," Chichi said, dragging the android to her car with Goku in tow. "You're going to catch a cold if you stay out here!"  
  
" . . . Androids don't catch colds . . ." Eighteen tried to protest, but even she was no match for Chichi's strong, motherly grip.  
  
  
  
  
  
Piccolo cracked a reluctant smile at his young pupil as he dodged another attack, landing on both feet and skidding his hand across the ground as he forced himself to become airborne once more. Now regaining his composure, the tall Namek swiveled his head, searching for his charge. Sweat dripped down he green forehead when his pupil refused to be seen.  
  
He knew that Gohan was out there. The air within the training room stirred with the sounds that could only be created by sudden movements, movements so fast they were practically undetectable, even for him. His large, pointed ears twitched as what sounded very much like his pint-sized opponent was received, and he managed to duck right before the youngster attempted a blow to his head with his tiny foot. Piccolo spun and caught the offending member, spinning little Gohan by his leg into the south wall of the room. Gohan hit the centre of the wall upside-down and slid the rest of the way down to the floor, stopping with a mumbled "ouch."  
  
"Get up," Piccolo grumbled as he drifted down towards the red-tiled floor, the domed ceiling around him making him look even taller than his seven-foot height dictated.  
  
Gohan rolled over and rubbed his aching head. "Mister Piccolo, can't we have a bre—"  
  
A swift kick to his stomach sent the little warrior upward, effectively cutting off his sentence and his air-stream. Gohan only had a few seconds to release a slight cough as the form of his mentor appeared above him, waiting to give him a sharp elbow to his back. Gohan phased out just before Piccolo had a chance to physically reprimand his student for such weakness as a request for a reprieve.  
  
The small fighter phased back in behind Piccolo, though the Namek mimicked his action before Gohan could try anything. Caught off-guard, Gohan searched for his teacher as he drifted about fifteen feet above the floor of the training room. No windows graced the smooth, sloping walls of the domed room, leaving Gohan at yet another disadvantage in this fight against his mentor, since many times he had been known to judge the location of a fighter by their reflection off the glass. Windows probably would not have helped him much right now however, since the setting sun would have directly faced the building in which they were located. Gohan's attention, however, was soon distracted from windows.  
  
"Pay attention," Piccolo admonished his student as he appeared behind him and caught him in a full nelson. Gohan struggled, kicking and flailing his limbs as his teacher tightened his hold. Gohan's vision began to blur as the pain centering in his arms and upper back increased with every insignificant pull of Piccolo's grip. His struggles slackened as he began to lose consciousness.  
  
"Don't tell me that's all the fight you have in you, kid," the Namek taunted.  
  
Gohan's head snapped up. "No, I'm not giving up!" he yelled, his energy suddenly gyrating around him in a flame-like pattern. "I won't give up!" he forced his arms free from his teacher with a sharp jerking motion.  
  
Piccolo smothered another commendatory smile that dared to emerge on his stony, emerald features, further concealing his approval with an energy blast at his young pupil. It made contact with the child's backside, sending him to the floor before he even had a chance to turn and face the attack head-on. The attack ricocheted off his posterior and exploded into one of the sloping walls, sending fragments to the floor where Gohan landed with a thud. Piccolo floated down closer to assess the damage.  
  
Gohan whirled and shot out a masenko powerful enough to demolish most of the city at his teacher, but Piccolo batted it away as though it were only mildly irritating. Then a scream came from the other side of the room.  
  
Chichi ducked down in panic and covered her eyes as the beam suddenly came barreling toward her. Gohan looked on in horror as his own energy blast approached his mother, while Piccolo sported a look of undisguised shock. Chichi's eyes widened through her fingers in horror as the blast came closer and closer . . . and suddenly stopped.  
  
Goku held the blast in his hands, struggling a little to keep it at bay. With one sharp thrust, he sent the energy away from his wife, and through the domed ceiling.  
  
Chichi screamed again.  
  
"Goku! We still haven't finished our payments for renting out this room and you're already destroying it!"  
  
Goku put his hand behind his head and laughed a little. "Sorry, Chichi," he said, abashed.  
  
"And you, Gohan!" Chichi glared at student and pupil, her dark eyes narrowing at them with a wrath unprecedented: the wrath of the mother. "What have I told you about using energy beams inside?!"  
  
Gohan averted his eyes from her penetrating gaze and kept them fixated on the floor. "Sorry, Mom."  
  
There were no apologies, as usual, from Piccolo to the over-bearing wife of Goku. He just preferred not to be involved in domestic scruples.  
  
"How do you two," she scolded both her husband and her son's master, "expect Gohan to be a successful fighter when you destroy the only places we can afford to let him train in?! Because of all our losses, we're up to our ears in debt, not to mention that we just signed on a new member, which means we'll have another salary to pay for! These are the last training rooms in town that will let us use them after what happened at the Nimbus Training Centre! How many training places do you think will allow people who blow everything sky high to train there?! None! That's how many! And if you blow up these rooms, there will be no place for Gohan to train for his future! We will have no money to live off of and you," she pointed to Piccolo, "will be out on the street without a job. Gohan will be the laughing stock of the entire city, and I, for one, refuse to let that happen! No son of mine will be a laughing stock! My son is a born champion, destined to win! He's going to be the greatest fighter that ever was, starting with this year's tour. I want to make him the team captain, and destroying every training room in the entire city isn't helping! Why can't you ever think of the consequences before you do something? I swear if I see so much as one kamehameha wave, I'll . . ."  
  
And this continued for quite some time.  
  
  
  
  
  
Rain began to splatter against the windshield of the aircar as Yamcha huddled over the steering wheel, his form more tense than a tightly wound spring. He peered through the mess of precipitation on the glass, just barely making out the car in front of him. The car Bulma was in. The car he was following.  
  
*I can't believe she's back!* he thought. *I didn't even recognize her without that perm she had before. She's changed so much! And where's she off to in such a hurry?* Yamcha swallowed nervously. *What if she's found another man? I know we didn't officially break up, but still . . . what if . . .* Yamcha shook his head doubtfully. *No . . .Bulma would never do that. She's the one who didn't want me to leave. I'm just being stupid. But where *is* she off to at this hour?*  
  
A flash of lightning announced its presence to the east as Bulma's car made a sharp right turn, kicking up a sheet of runoff water and nearly throwing Yamcha off track. Thinking more clearly on the matter, it seemed that following Bulma was probably not the best way to reintroduce himself to her now, but he had already come so far, in his opinion. Why stop now? Besides, this road they were taking seemed vaguely familiar to him . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
Bulma rounded the corner quickly, covering the wall of the deserted arena in a solid sheet of grey, murky water. Abruptly she parked the car behind the stadium, dashing out with a loose jacket over her head to block out the steady downpour and her light bag of training equipment. She sloshed her way to the front doors of the old arena, nearly managing to step in every puddle along the way.  
  
She approached the door, grateful for the slight protection the tiny overhang offered her as she fumbled for her keys. Regrettably, she realized that she had left them at home. As she leaned against the door in defeat, she was caught unaware as her weight forced it open.  
  
She fell gracelessly on her rump.  
  
Hefting herself up, she rubbed her behind gingerly before making her way to the indoor draining rooms. She did not even flinch when the door slammed shut by its own accord after she had taken a few steps. It always did that. Despite the darkness from the lack of windows, Bulma stepped quickly down the long corridor, sensing her direction purely by memory. The pitter-patter of the rain droned on, heard even through the thick walls of the ancient coliseum, interjecting between her footsteps with their lilting subdivisions and continuing the soft percussion symphony long after the footfalls had ceased. Bulma stopped at the fourth door, took a deep breath, and knocked seven times in a slow, precise manner. The door obligingly creaked open.  
  
"You're late."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Man, there's got to be another way into this place," Yamcha grumbled as he yanked on the locked doorknob and received only the same adamant response from it. He considered just blasting the cumbersome obstacle out of his way, but decided against it. Breaking into the stadium with energy beams flying every which way probably would not be the best way to impress Bulma. Moreover, he refused to let himself be outsmarted by an inanimate object.  
  
It was not until after the fifth time he circled the arena that he remembered that the old stadium had no windows or unlocked side doors whatsoever. He sank down beside the wall and ran his fingers through his hair in defeat as the rain droned on. The slight lip of the domed roof overhead protected him from the wet onslaught, but Yamcha still felt a drop land on his shoulder. He looked up irritably to find the remnants of a ladder, fallen into disrepair over the past years, swinging brokenly on its last hinge and dripping water on his person in a steady rhythm. Despite the fresh assault of water now fixating itself on his upturned face, Yamcha's eyes brightened. Words lay etched upon the wall in chipping blue paint, reading: LADDER TO SKYLIGHT.  
  
Without hesitation, Yamcha levitated himself to the roof of the old building, pointedly ignoring the annoying saturation the ceaseless rain caused his clothing. The water pounded on the glass residing at the height of the dome encircled by a small observation deck, which now overflowed with the rain's steady downpour. The clear panes of the skylight reflected the ominous clouds overhead that pelted their surface with clear, hard beads of precipitation, though surprisingly, they did not break, and seemed to be the only thing Yamcha had seen so far at the old stadium that had not fallen into dilapidation. He set his feet on the drenched observation deck and knelt down by the skylight, looking for the latch of one of the panes that might be unlocked, if he was lucky.  
  
Whomever had locked the place up when it closed must have been preoccupied with something else, for when Yamcha's had found the latch, he was able to lift the pane clear open without any effort. He leapt inside, pulling the pane closed and mercifully blocking out the pounding storm. Looking down, he could see the entire arena, or what was left of it. Directly below him the chipped and broken tiles of the ring inexorably progressed in their decay, and the thousands of seats encompassing it did little to lift the mood with their empty echoes of cheers long since dead. Drifting toward the closest solid ground, Yamcha set his feet on the catwalk that circled the arena near the very top of the dome.  
  
The first thing he noticed that unnerved was the atmosphere. He walked a bit on the catwalk, still unsure as to where he was going, before the hollowness of his steps on the cold metal made him edgy and he floated down to the last row of seats. Now farther from the skylight, the area around Yamcha darkened, and the lack of sight made his hearing more acute. He went down each stair cautiously, uncertain of his footing in the darkened coliseum. The air entering his lungs seemed stagnant and the only noise more upsetting that his footsteps was the sound of his breath cutting through the dead space. He hopped over the wall that separated the stands from the fighting area, kicking up a bit of dust on impact and creating an unsettling echo that resonated throughout the room in an eerie manner.  
  
As he moved out of the fighting area and into main corridor, his footsteps were joined by another pair. He paused, trying to place the location where sound originated. Upon finding it, he bolted forward and turned right when he reached the junction of the three main halls. He did not know why he suddenly felt an urgency to run and find out where that sound was emanating from, but something drove him onward. Maybe it was the dead feeling in the air that seemed to suspend everything in place. Maybe it was the way every sound in the place was magnified as it echoed against the high, cavernous walls until the only sound that returned was a shrill, haunted scream. Maybe it was the fact that though he had known this place all his young adult life, he no longer was able to see any resemblance between his childhood dream palace and this lifeless, empty tomb. He kept running.  
  
It was not until he passed the third door that he made visual contact. In the darkened hall, he could see a faint sliver of light coming from the fourth training room down, and a familiar silhouette outlined in its glow.  
  
"Bulma!" he called out.  
  
As if the sound had dissipated before it reached her, her blue eyes paid him no heed as she stared into the tenebrously lit room, seemingly focused on one thing and one alone. She shifted her bag slung on her shoulder and smirked roguishly.  
  
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said to the empty training room.  
  
She stepped inside the room without a second glance to her old love, or even a first glance, for that matter, the door slamming pointedly shut behind her. Yamcha looked at the door with a befuddled blink of his eyes.  
  
" . . . Bulma?"  
  
  
  
  
  
"What kept you," the room demanded impatiently.  
  
There was nothing special about the fourth training room of the old stadium. The typical elevated, white-tiled miniature version of the stadium ring sat in the far corner, content just to be surrounded by the empty, unadorned walls while the area around it housed the necessary warm-up and warm-down facilities. A black punching bag hung suspended over the lower part of the room to the left near, but not too close to, a plain, leaden mirror reflecting the dull decor. Lastly, a white sink lay to the right in the place that was unspokenly the warming-down area for fighters to go refresh themselves after a match, along with a screen used to change clothing. Bulma immediately headed in the sink's direction to dry her rain dampened self on the towel provided.  
  
"Rain made the traffic terrible," she half-lied as smoothly as she slipped behind the folding screen, discarding her damp garments and replacing them with a white shirt reading "Bulma" and loose workout pants. She walked over to the ring and sat down, peeling off her wet socks and substituting her boots with light sneakers. "Did you miss me?"  
  
The room answered with what could only be described as a dignified "hmph" as Bulma finished tying her shoes and stood up to stretch. "What's the matter, Grumpy? Wake up on the wrong side of the grave today, Dead boy?" she teased.  
  
"My grave is none of your concern."  
  
"Still griping about the privacy issue, huh?" Bulma brushed aside the room's harsh tone. "How come you never complain about the whole dead thing I tease you with then?"  
  
"I *am* dead."  
  
Bulma blinked confusedly before perking up again. "Fair enough. Whatever floats your boat." She looked thoughtful once again, then questioned, "If you're dead, should I call you Ghost?"  
  
"Call me what you wish. It makes no difference."  
  
She smiled with a glint in her eye. "I think I'll just call you Grumpy. It suits you."  
  
There was an irritated silence after this, indicating that the voice did *not* like its new name, but decided to ignore it for the time being. "How did the tryouts go?" the voice inquired, changing the subject.  
  
"Passed the test with flying colours," Bulma grinned.  
  
"As it should be."  
  
Bulma put her hands on her hips indignantly and glowered. "Easy for you to say. That little bald guy almost kicked me out of the ring at the first attack!"  
  
The room sneered at her. "You were overconfident."  
  
"Me?!" Bulma shouted back, offended. "*I'm* overconfident?! If anyone's overconfident here, Grumpy, it's you!"  
  
"Don't call me that, Woman."  
  
"I'll call you whatever I want, Grumpy."  
  
The room seemed to growl in annoyance. "Enough of this idle talk. We're wasting valuable time here. If Krillin could come close to beating you, you have a long way to go, and we had better get started."  
  
Once again, Bulma was caught off guard by what the voice had said. "You know him?"  
  
"I know everyone who has entered this stadium."  
  
"Then you knew me before I even met you," Bulma stated. "How long have you been here?"  
  
"It doesn't matter."  
  
"Why not?" Bulma asked angrily to his evasive answer.  
  
"Because I am eternal."  
  
Bulma laughed. "E-eternal?" she forced out between chuckles. "You think you're eternal? You really are a nutcase, Grumpy," she teased.  
  
"I am the Tournament Ghost."  
  
  
  
  
  
Yamcha fell to the floor and backed away on his hands and knees from the door he had been leaning against to eavesdrop on his old love. He had been fairly sure that there were no others besides himself and Bulma in the entire stadium, so when she had spoken to the empty room, he had become more than a little curious. Maybe she had gone insane from missing him so much? She seemed sane enough when she was at the tryouts. He had peeked through the keyhole in the door to see who this mystery conversationalist happened to be, but strangely, he had seen no one, and even stranger, he still did not sense anyone but himself and Bulma present. That last comment made by this strange speaker had explained everything and made his face blanch as he backed up into the other side of the corridor, but, even though curiosity killed the cat, it did not stop the dog from sniffing its carcass. He summoned up his strength and looked through the keyhole once more.  
  
  
  
  
  
Those five words shut Bulma up quick. She had long heard legends of the infamous Tournament Ghost, who had been the reason for the stadium's desertion. The place no longer held tournaments because of all the strange happenings that had started before even she and Yamcha had said their last farewells that one bleak night five years ago. Tales of the lethal ghost who carried death's head upon its shoulders had spread throughout the city when the old managers of the stadium had found corpses laid across their ring one night, each a new member of their team. Fighters had also complained about hearing screams within the walls of the coliseum, each reverberation sounding like a soul that was being torn from the body of a living person, and of strange, unnaturally flashing lights emanating from the premises. Most had labeled the phenomena as a malfunction in plumbing or lighting equipment, though those that had claimed to have caught a glimpse or heard a word from the elusive ghost would have told otherwise. To them the Tournament Ghost was real. Very real.  
  
Bulma backed away in fear until she bumped into the wall. "Y- you're not going to k-kill me now, are you?"  
  
She felt the room grin evilly. "Not unless you want me to."  
  
"I-I'd rather you didn't," she quivered.  
  
An exasperated fluctuation crossed the room. "Woman," the voice circled around her in an almost comforting manner, "if I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it a long time ago."  
  
Bulma closed her eyes and sighed, though whether it was to calm herself or to revel in the embrace of that rough, yet calming voice could not be discerned. Finally, her eyes snapped open with her classic ability to take things in stride and she stated firmly, "Well, then let's get to training. The tour is getting closer and closer and we're wasting time talking about the past."  
  
The walls echoed with what could pass for laughter. "Now there's the woman I agreed to train. Let's begin with . . ." the voice suddenly dropped into silence.  
  
"Grumpy?" Bulma called out to the room.  
  
No response.  
  
"Grumpy what's wrong?" she beseeched him with the name that made him so easily irritated in hopes to spark an argument, an insult, anything but this silence that now engulfed her.  
  
"We are not alone."  
  
  
  
  
  
Yamcha flew away from the door so quickly his head smacked into the wall of the corridor, nearly giving him a concussion. Whether the ghost had merely been teasing before or not, that evil mockery of homicide had sent shivers up and down his spine. That scraping, yet soothing voice had echoed throughout the empty room, engulfing him with its icy grip. His breathing quickened and slick sweat slid down his face as he tried to calm himself. *He knows I'm here,* he thought in terror, gripping the wall behind him as though it would protect him from the wrath of this immortal spectre. He gulped as he tried to clear his wildly pulsating heart from his throat and did what any self-respecting person would have done in his place.  
  
He panicked.  
  
He bolted down the corridor, stumbling and shoving against walls in his clumsy flight. He could almost hear the slight displacement of the air behind him, as though something were following him. He did not want to find out what it was. With the super-human speed that had set him apart from other fighters in the tournaments he raced down the long hall, not really knowing how he would be able to outrun this creature of the night. His quick footsteps echoed down the passage, striking the floor so quickly it could have passed for a drum roll until a stray step struck upon a piece of ancient debris directly in his path. He fell to the floor, skidding his hands along the rough surface and feeling a sharp pain rush through his leg. He pushed himself from the ground, despite his injured hands, tried to pull up quickly, but something caught his eye, freezing him in place.  
  
A puddle, most likely formed by a leak in the old roof and the storm outside, rippled to life with the horrific image of darkness. Cimmerian eyes smoldered within the recesses of an emotionless skull, cloaked in the blackness of night, approaching him at a frightening rate, closer and closer . . .  
  
"GET. OUT."  
  
The words rolled slowly and articulately off the dead tongue of the ghost behind him, resonating through the hallway with an alarming sense of sempiternity. Yamcha could almost feel the chilling breath of the monster upon his skin, as though it was right behind him. His skin crawled at the mere vibration of that voice echoing throughout the air around him. As the sound dissipated, he wondered if this was all some horrific nightmare, the terror being too much to be real for him. He wished he would wake up.  
  
"NOW."  
  
This was no dream.  
  
With the sheer intensity that his fear created, he practically flew down the hall, only to be stopped by the locked door at the entranceway. Not trusting himself to look behind him in hopes of finding another exit, he could only think of one way out.  
  
Yellow fire escaped from his outstretched hand, incinerating the entrance on contact with its virulent energy. The charred remains of the solid, double-door crumbled away within a matter of seconds, falling into the smoking puddle of the melted locks and door handles. Not wasting any time, Yamcha bolted out of his makeshift exit, not even flinching when he ran too close to the edge, scraping his side and tearing part of his clothes on a jagged piece of the leftover stadium. Thee sound of an aircar's engines sprang to life from the parking lot and Yamcha sped through the rain to get away from the stadium as fast as he could, at around thirty over the limit.  
  
All activity in the stadium came to complete halt, filling the halls with only the dying resonation of the ghost's warning. The rain and wind flew in through the new opening with a chill and a monotonous pattering of rain against the floor. The voice was quiet.  
  
"Grumpy?" Bulma called out in the training room, "what was that sound?"  
  
The voice seemed to be everywhere at once when he said:  
  
"It was not worth your concern."  
  
  
  
  
  
" . . .and do you even know how much repairs to these training rooms cost?!" Chichi continued her rant. "We're already in the red! We can't afford to pay for these rooms as it is! The only money we have left is in our savings account! Do you want to end up spending that?! Do you?!"  
  
Goku put his hand behind his head and laughed sheepishly. "Well, I guess not."  
  
"Darn right you don't!" Chichi persisted. "We're saving that money for emergencies. I don't need you guys to make me spend it on training room repairs! And another thi—"  
  
At that moment, the door burst open, allowing an extremely distraught man, and about five gallons of water, passage through. Heads turned as the man bolted in, shouting, "Coach Goku! Coach Goku!"  
  
"Yamcha?" Goku inquired to the dripping mass that rushed toward him and tripped, falling at his feet. The man lifted his scarred face to the benevolent coach who immediately saw is inquiry to be true, though the man he called Yamcha was almost unrecognizable through the lack of colour in his face. Goku lifted him up gently. "You look like you've just seen a ghost!" he tried to lighten the mood with a laugh.  
  
Yamcha supported himself on one of the slanted walls, trying to get his shivering convulsions under control. Piccolo, sensing trouble in that quintessential mystic way of his, spoke up.  
  
"What happened," he said bluntly as more of a statement than a question.  
  
Yamcha turned to face the crowd of people now staring at him for an answer. "I-I was following B-Bulma so I could talk to her . . . and she . . . she went to the abandoned stadium . . ." he trailed off.  
  
"And then what happened?" Goku asked in a calm voice while the rest of the group remained silent, even notoriously noisy Chichi, surprisingly.  
  
Yamcha leaned his back against the wall, taking in deep breaths to calm himself. His eyes looked up as began to recite his story, growing more and more distant with every word.  
  
"I she went inside the stadium through the front door, but when I tried it, it was locked. I went up to the skylight and got in that way, but I couldn't find Bulma anywhere near the arena. I kept hearing noises, like echoes or something, and I followed them. When I got to the hall that had the training rooms in it, I saw Bulma. She was talking to the empty room . . . something about waiting . . . and then she went inside. The door locked behind her, so I listened against the door. I heard her talking and someone talking back, but when I looked through the keyhole, I didn't see anybody. Then they started talking about the tryouts, I think, and he said that he knew Krillin. She asked him how, and he said he was . . . was the Tournament Ghost."  
  
"Tournament Ghost?" little Gohan asked innocently.  
  
"It's just a myth, Gohan," Goku said smoothly, "made up by some people to explain things that they couldn't understand."  
  
"No!" Yamcha shouted to Goku, his eyes wild. "I saw him! I saw the Tournament Ghost! He's real, Coach! I saw him with my own eyes!"  
  
"Yamcha," Goku tried to pacify the distraught fighter, "you've had a long day. Why don't we get you ho—"  
  
"I saw him!" Yamcha protested. "He moved like a shadow and had a face that looked like death! He came after me! I saw his burning eyes and felt his cold breath over my shoulder!"  
  
"Come on Yamcha," Goku carried him towards the door, but the scarred man struggled in his grip savagely.  
  
"No! I saw him! I saw him! I don't need to go home! I need to save Bulma! We need to save her! The ghost has her prisoner in the stadium! If you're not going to help me save her, then I'll just have to save her myself!"  
  
Yamcha managed to break free of Goku's hold, bolting away from Goku in a blind flight that led him straight to Piccolo, who promptly knocked the crazed man unconscious. He picked Yamcha up by the collar of his shirt and dumped him at Goku's feet. "You suppose it's just something he ate?" Piccolo asked seriously.  
  
"I don't know," Goku scratched his head. "He sounded like he was telling the truth, but we both know that that Tournament Ghost thing is just a legend."  
  
Piccolo said nothing, but rather, closed his eyes in contemplative silence. Goku turned his attention away from the Namek to look at his son, who happened to be nudging Yamcha's unconscious form with his toe. "Will he be all right, Daddy?" the little seven-year old asked with worry in his wide eyes.  
  
Goku tousled his son's hair affectionately saying, "I'm sure he will, Gohan. We just need to get him home now."  
  
Gohan's face brightened with his father's confidence in regards to Yamcha's well-being. "Okay."  
  
"Coming, Chichi?" Goku called over his shoulder to his wife, satisfied with his son's improved attitude. He received no reply.  
  
"Chichi?" he turned around fully. She did not answer still, her face turned away from him and her tiny frame shivering. "Chichi, are you okay?" Goku asked, getting worried.  
  
"D-do you think h-he was telling the truth?" she quivered.  
  
Goku put a consoling hand on her shoulder and massaged it gently. "I don't know," he whispered calmly into her ear, "but we'll find out."  
  
"Do you know w-what this m-means?" her shaking intensified.  
  
"What?" Goku tried to calm her with his words, holding her tight from behind. Her quaking did not stop, but increased instead. "Tell me, Chichi," he breathed soothingly.  
  
Chichi abruptly spun in his grip and shook him by the shoulders in emphasis to her words.  
  
"WE'RE GOING TO BE RICH!"  
  
"Huh?" Goku questioned articulately, completely in shock to her statement. Piccolo and Gohan blinked just as eloquently.  
  
"We'll buy the abandoned stadium, host the tour there, sell my cooking in the concession stands, and make a fortune!" Chichi practically danced up the walls.  
  
"But Chichi," Goku tried to calm down his hyperactive wife, "you don't even know where this stadium is, let alone if Yamcha even knows what he's talking about."  
  
"We'll ask him when he wakes up," Chichi said off-handedly. "Oh, I just can't wait! We'll finally be able to get Gohan a private tutor that will come with us on the tours! This is so wonderful!"  
  
"Uh, Chichi?" Goku interrupted her private celebration, "assuming this abandoned stadium exists, how are we going to pay for it?"  
  
Chichi refused to stop smiling. "With our savings account money, silly!"  
  
Goku scratched his head. "I thought that was for an emergency."  
  
Chichi practically skipped toward the open door, despite the gloomy weather outside and sprawled out body of Yamcha. Goku had never seen her so happy in his life. He practically expected her to break into song.  
  
"Consider this our emergency," she grinned back at him before beckoning him to follow.  
  
  
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the delay. I got writer's block in the middle. Seriously, Chichi's just a hard character for me to write. I don't know why. THANK YOU TO THOSE WHO REVIEWED! It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. If anyone has suggestions for where you want the story to go, I will appreciatively read them, though most of the storyline is pretty adamant. But that doesn't mean I can't squeeze in a few things here and there, right? I love getting suggestions! Sometimes it's the suggestions that I don't use that give me creative bursts, so if you do give me a suggestion and I don't use it, don't worry. It was probably responsible for a big part of the story. Heh . . . now I'm talking as if *my* opinion matters to *you.* I'll try to be a little bit quicker with the next chapter. Oh, and in case you're wondering, the little sections at the top of the chapters are lyrics from the musical THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (I don't own that either) and each title of the story is the name of the song that's written there. After that, I write the word "and" followed by whatever I feel like adding (as long as it has something to do with the chapter). Just thought I'd clear that up.  
  
~Chunks  
  
And yes, Borego, you are the zippiest dragon that likes flamingos. You've got all the other flamingo-liking dragons beat on the zippiness factor. 


	4. Little Lotte and Questionnaire

Descargo de Responsabilidad: No soy la duena de el Dragonball Z. Yo solo soy una chica que no tiene muchas cosas lujosas y necesita escribir FanFiction para mantener a algn ocupado. Necesito una vida. Hmm . . . Spanishy.  
  
Liminal Message: Read ZippyDragon*43's 'Romance Idiots With High Ki.' It is cool and all and she is my Homie G Funk Dawg from the West Saieed and my own personal Funnie Wonder.   
  
Subliminal Message: rednoW einnuF lanosrep nwo ym dna deeiaS tseW eht morf gwaD knuF G eimoH ym si ehs dna lla dna looc si tI '.iK hgiH htiW stoidI ecnamoR' s'34*nogarDyppiZ daeR  
  
  
  
And now, on with the fic! Tallyho!  
  
  
  
  
  
Little Lotte and Questionnaire  
  
  
  
"No, what I love best," Lotte said,  
  
"Is when I'm asleep in my bed  
  
And the Angel of Music  
  
Sings songs in my head!"  
  
  
  
"A little to the left. That's right . . . keep her going . . ." Chichi directed the construction workers as if she owned them. The sun beat down on the sight, making the industrious workers a bit lethargic and even the overseers in their shady pavilion sweat. The warm air rippled to the eyes like an atmospheric lake around the old stadium now being remodeled. Chichi wiped her brow of sweat before inhaling another lungful of air to continue ordering the labourers around.  
  
"Chichi," Goku stopped her short, "I think they're doing fine on their own. I mean look," he pointed to some men directing a cement truck, "doesn't it seem like they know what they're doing?"  
  
Chichi smiled guilelessly to her husband and cupped his cheek in her hand. "Of course they know what they're doing, Sweetie. I'm just making sure they do it right," she released him and walked off to go find a megaphone.  
  
Goku smiled and sighed. That was his Chichi. He turned to look at the rest of the newly purchased sight, the sound of Chichi's commands amplified by a megaphone just a little too much for his ears to handle. Despite the unbearable heat, he saw Krillin and Tien both flying around, playing keep-away with Chaozu, the doll-faced fighter desperately trying to get his little hat from the two. Gohan sat in the shade of an unused truck, contentedly humming a little tune as his pencil scratched at his studies while Piccolo stood nearby, not letting his pupil stray far from his sight. Yamcha was conspicuously absent.  
  
Goku headed over toward the tall Namekian, his cheerful demeanour wavering at the sight of his scrutinous silence. He calmly took his place beside him, waiting for him to speak first. There was a long pause where neither said anything.  
  
"I don't trust it," Piccolo finally spoke, staring at the large form of the stadium as bits and pieces were being replaced on it.  
  
"Don't trust what?" Goku asked, cocking his head to the side.  
  
Piccolo narrowed his eyes. "This place gives me a strange feeling about it. Something's not right here."  
  
Goku blinked and looked at the remnants of the stadium, and, obviously not seeing anything odd about the building, turned back to his son's tutor. "I don't know. It seems pretty normal to me."  
  
"There's been rumour about this place . . ." Piccolo started.  
  
"Don't tell me you believe all that stuff about the Tournament Ghost!" Goku said. "I thought you of all people would be smart enough to tell the difference between a neighbourhood legend and solid fact."  
  
"I'm not saying I believe it's an actual ghost," Piccolo glanced sidelong at Goku, "but there have been strange occurrences around here in the years when this stadium was used."  
  
"Like those massacres?"  
  
"Exactly," Piccolo turned his gaze forward again. "I'm no expert on the supernatural, but I'm pretty sure they can get their point across without bloodshed. I've also been checking the old papers," he frowned grimly. "It seems the victims were attacked by energy blasts."  
  
"Energy blasts? Like from a fighter?" Goku looked at him sharply.  
  
Piccolo did not respond. His dark eyes held a calculating look, as though they were scanning information files within his mind. Finally he blinked and looked at his pupil's father, and in a loose sense, his friend.  
  
"I have an inside source on this place. I'm going to look in into this and find out what's at the bottom of this little mystery." With a swirl of his white mantel the tall Namek exited with a determined note to his steps.  
  
"Okay, you do that," Goku said in an uplifting manner. As he watched Piccolo head off to his "inside source," the he began to become aware of the intense head of the midday sun. Despite the shade he now stood in, he felt a cool drink was in order and stepped lightly toward the pavilion where his wife still preoccupied herself with instructing the unfortunate construction crew on how to properly rebuild a stadium.  
  
"How's it coming?" he asked as he opened up a bottle of water.  
  
Chichi took a break from her "helpful hints" to answer her husband. "I can't judge for sure, but it should be done in about a week. It's not totaled, but it was in pretty bad shape. We'll have to postpone that party with Kame Team, though."  
  
Goku's face fell. "So no buffet?"  
  
"Sorry, Goku," she patted his shoulder sympathetically, "no buffet."  
  
"Miss Chichi! Miss Chichi!"  
  
Chichi whirled around from her husband to see a small labourer rushing towards her, his round face pale and his hard hat jouncing around on his head as he ran. His feet shuffled him to a stop in front of the shady pavilion, kicking up a bit of dust that made him cough as he took deep breaths to calm himself.  
  
Chichi looked concerned in that motherly way of hers, but managed to keep her voice crisp and matter-of-fact. "What's the problem?"  
  
With a shaking hand, the worker delivered a small, white envelope in the expectant woman's hand. Chichi held it closer to her eyes and read the front out loud:  
  
"*To the Newest Managers of My Stadium*"  
  
Goku and Chichi exchanged a glance and Goku set his water down to read the letter with his wife. Chichi sat down and opened the seal of the letter, unfolding the document within and continuing to read aloud.  
  
"*My Dearest Benefactors:  
  
Congratulations on your purchase of the Grand Stadium. I look forward to becoming quite well acquainted with its new managers and the fighters you bring onto the premises. I must request of you, however, that you do no construction on the training rooms. I can assure you they are in perfect working order. I request a monthly salary of five thousand zeni for allowing you to use my extensive facility and would appreciate it if the north tier of seats on the high balcony level in the arena would remain unsold at every tournament. These will be reserved especially for me. I will expect that my demands will be followed to the letter and I will receive my salary within the week. If you are concerned of where to leave the money, just place it on your desk in your office before you exit. I will collect it during the night. Follow my demands, and all will be well. If not, prepare for disaster.  
  
Sincerely Yours,  
  
T.G.*"  
  
"T.G.?" Goku questioned. "What does that stand for?"  
  
Chichi gave him that 'you're-such-an-idiot-but-I-love-you-anyway' look and stated the obvious. "It probably stands for Tournament Ghost," she then directed her gaze to the messenger. "Where did you get this?"  
  
The little man looked up at her with wide eyes that seemed to scream that they had seen what they should not have seen. "I-it was posted on the door of the m-manager's office, ma'am."  
  
"Thank you," Chichi waved him off with her hand. "You can get back to work now."  
  
"No ma'am."  
  
Chichi glared sharply at the mutinous workman. "What do you mean 'no'?"  
  
"I quit," he set his hardhat down on the table near Goku's water, the impact sending ripples throughout the clear liquid, and rushed off without another word.  
  
Goku looked after him with a confused expression. "What do you suppose got into him?"  
  
Chichi held the letter up and scanned it once more with an enigmatic look in her eyes.  
  
"Maybe he ran into our little friend here," she whispered with all seriousness.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Come on, Chaozu! I know you can be faster than that!" Krillin taunted lightheartedly.  
  
"This isn't funny, Krillin!" Chaozu flew to retrieve his little black hat only to see it soar once again away from him and into Tien's eager hand. Tien held it high and smirked a bit when Chaozu flew up to get it, his fingers just missing the elusive article.  
  
"Tien! I thought we were friends!" the small fighter whined.  
  
Tien's three eyes softened a bit and he knelt down to hand the hat to Chaozu, who eagerly snatched it from him. "We're always friends, Chaozu. We're were just messing with you."  
  
"Speaking of messes," Krillin smiled, "have either of you guys seen Yamcha around? I haven't seen the slob since the tryouts."  
  
"No, I haven't," Tien said, looking confused. "That's weird. He should be here. After all, he did find the place for us."  
  
Chaozu looked up at the triclops. "No he didn't. That girl did. At least that's what Chichi said."  
  
"What girl? The one that beat Krillin up?" Tien asked.  
  
"Hey!" Krillin shouted indignantly. "For your information, that girl just happens to be Bulma Briefs, the richest woman on Earth, so obviously she can afford the best training around! That's the only reason why she beat me!"  
  
"Sure," Tien said, not really paying attention to the smaller man's vehement denials. "How did you find out her name anyway, Krillin? Did Chichi tell you? She didn't tell me and Chaozu."  
  
Krillin stopped short and blinked, his hand reaching behind his head and a rosy blush tinting his cheeks. "I uh . . . well . . . ah . . ." he stuttered, his face reddening with each half-uttered syllable.  
  
"Krillin! Are we leaving or what?!"  
  
All seven eyes turned to see the lovely Android Eighteen leaning against her sporty red aircar, the wax job matching the steely glint in her eye. The daggers she glared were enough to turn any man's legs to jelly, but they seemed to have a particularly strong effect on Krillin. "I'm waiting," she directed her voice to the small ex-monk, her tone indicating that she would not do so for long.  
  
"Uh, right! Coming!" Krillin suddenly snapped to attention, his smile becoming more pronounced and even more embarrassed, if that were even possible as he scurried toward the beautiful blonde.  
  
"Byeguys!" he rushed out in one word that was barely heard over the dust he kicked up in his hurried departure. Before Tien and Chaozu could blink, the car sped off, all hopes of an explanation leaving with it.  
  
For a while, no one said anything.  
  
"You don't suppose . . ." Tien began, all three eyes still maintaining the expression of shock and confusion that had appeared at Krillin's hasty exit.  
  
"No . . . Krillin knows the rules. He's not stupid enough to break them . . ." Chaozu said half-heartedly, his eyes still focused on the direction of which the car had left.  
  
" . . . is he?" they said in unison.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Well, Chichi," Goku surmised as he reread at the mysterious letter horizontally, "you don't *know* that the ghost wrote this. It could be some sort of prank."  
  
Chichi's worried eyes suddenly snapped to hard obsidian. "What?" she growled ominously low in her throat.  
  
"You know," Goku carried on, oblivious to his wife's warning tone, "I've never actually known a ghost to write anything. Wouldn't the pen pass through their hand? Come to think of it, I've never actually known any ghosts at all . . ."  
  
Chichi's fists began to clench spasmodically while her left eye twitched in an uneven rhythm.  
  
"Hmm . . ." Goku pondered, turning the letter once again so that it was currently upside-down, "for a ghost this guy has really neat handwriting."  
  
"WOULD YOU JUST DROP IT ABOUT THE GHOST THING, GOKU?!!"  
  
Goku blinked in a bewildered manner. "No need to yell, Chichi. I'm right here."  
  
If Chichi could grind her teeth any harder, they would be nothing but gums. She snatched the letter with an abruptness that shocked her husband, despite his frequent exposure to supernatural speed. "We're going to have a look into this mess, Goku," she snarled, gripping her newly attained letter so tightly her husband feared her fingernails would puncture through and injure her hands, "starting with our beloved team members."  
  
"But I'm sure they didn't d—" his sentence ended suddenly as she dragged him towards the clearing in the construction work where Tien and Chaozu still stood dumbstruck by the events that had previously transpired.  
  
"All right, which one of you is the wise guy who wrote this?!" Chichi demanded.  
  
Both the triclops and the midget did not respond, however, their mouths did gape a bit.  
  
"ANSWER ME!"  
  
Tien and Chaozu jumped with a start and turned around to face a horror beyond all horrors: Chichi in a *very* bad mood.  
  
"WHICH ONE OF YOU WROTE THIS LETTER?!" she shoved the offending paper in the closest face, which just happened to be Tien's.  
  
"Chfchf, ithha lmphteh clofta mfath . . ."  
  
Completely ignoring Tien's complaint, she continued:  
  
"I didn't spend our savings on this stadium just so some snot-nosed punk could pull such a moronic prank to get me to waste five thousand zeni a month to pay for god-knows-what while he sits in his expensive house that *our* money paid for, laughing at us the entire time! If I find out who did this I swear I'll rip off both his arms and beat him with them until he looses consciousness! Then I'll shove this letter right up his—"  
  
"Chichi, calm down," Goku tried to placate his volatile wife.  
  
"Calm down?!" she screeched in such a volume that the others had to cover their ears (except for Tien, who, unfortunately, could not slip his hands around the letter firmly planted in his face in time to save himself from her vocal onslaught). "CALM DOWN?! No I will *not* calm down! Not when someone is trying to intimidate me into giving them five thousand zeni, FIVE THOUSAND ZENI, and is most likely a member of our team!"  
  
"Uh, Miss Chichi," Chaozu said meekly, "I don't think Tien can breathe."  
  
Chichi blinked and pulled the letter away from Tien's face, which now sported a lovely shade of blue that could rival Bulma's hair any day. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Tien," Chichi's mood did a complete one-eighty.  
  
"S'aright," he managed to gasp out.  
  
Chichi put a pensive finger to her lips. "Now where was I . . . oh yes. One of you better confess right now and maybe, MAYBE, I'll let you off with a quick, simple kill . . ." her sentence tapered off with a menacing note.  
  
Having now regained his composure, Tien decided the best way out of this situation would be to take the path of self-preservation. "We didn't write it, Chichi, I swear!"  
  
"Oh?" she raised her brow in a scrutinous manner. "Then who did?"  
  
"It wasn't us, Miss Chichi, honest!" little Chaozu defended himself and his friend.  
  
"Where's Krillin?" Goku innocently tried to change the subject. Oh, Goku, when will you ever learn? You are just adding more fuel to the fire . . .  
  
"Krillin's missing?" Chichi said suspiciously. "And just where did he go, hmm?"  
  
"He and Eighteen left just a few minutes ago," Chaozu pointed in their direction of departure.  
  
"WITH EIGHTEEN?! So he's helping the enemy! That's why he wrote the letter!" Chichi pieced it together.  
  
"Hey, Chichi, are you sure?" Goku tried to placate her. "I mean, Krillin's a good guy. He wouldn't go and switch sides on us . . ."  
  
"Oh, wouldn't he? Come on Goku!" she whirled on him. "Look at the facts! He's obviously in league with Kame Team and is trying to make sure we don't have enough money to support our fighters in the tournament, granting a complete victory for them! Obviously Roshi's slyer than we thought . . ." she puzzled out.  
  
"You think Roshi's behind this? Really, Chichi, I thought you were better than that," Goku reprimanded his wife. "Roshi's been our friend for years! The most he has against us is just some friendly competition."  
  
"Friendly competition my foot," Chichi growled. "He wants to ruin us! And he's using that blonde bimbo to do it too!"  
  
"But Chichi! I thought you and Eighteen were friends!" Goku was taken aback by her hostility.  
  
"*Were* friends, Goku!" she spat out. "We're not anymore! Do friends try to start revolutions in other friends' teams? I don't think so!"  
  
"Chichi," Tien managed to squeeze his two cents in before the mercurial wife of his coach could start another rant, "you know the only reason we can beat Team Ginyu is because Kame Team helps us gang up on them in the team fighting. Don't you see how this could ruin our chances to win? We need Kame Team on our side."  
  
Chichi hmphed, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling down at her feet. For all that she hated to admit it, the triclops had a point. If she cut their ties to the Kame Team, their chances at beating the opposition, namely Team Ginyu, would go down the toilet. The members of Team Ginyu were clumsy, oafish, and downright stupid, but they could fight like no tomorrow. In the individual rounds of the tournament, Chichi and Goku's Dragon Team had no problem beating the bumbling behemoths, but during the team fighting, Ginyu could never be defeated if Kame Team did not step in and help out. Without Kame Team, the Dragon Team was, for lack of a better word, screwed.  
  
"Fine," Chichi consented. "We won't break out of our little unspoken agreement with Kame Team, but we won't mention this conversation to Krillin at all, got it?"  
  
"But Chichi," Goku pleaded, "we can't just not tell him! I'm telling you, he didn't write it!"  
  
"Krillin will be put on a secret trial period until our grand opening fight. None of you will tell Krillin about any of this. We will watch Krillin's actions carefully and judge whether or not he is a loyal member of our team."  
  
"What if he isn't?" Chaozu asked worriedly.  
  
"He will be cut from the team and will not receive any of his salary from the beginning of the year."  
  
All others around her blanched. It was a fate worse than death, it was.  
  
"I'll expect you men not to let your friendship impair your judgement on this matter," Chichi said curtly, "and I don't want you to let this get in the way of your fighting. I want my fighters to be nice and strong for the big opening," she allowed herself a little smile as she abruptly turned and headed off to continue overseeing the reconstruction.  
  
"What's this 'big opening,' Chichi?" Goku's curiosity pulled him out of his preceding horror.  
  
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Chichi said off-handedly as though it was of no importance. "After we're done with the reconstruction we're going to have a grand opening exhibition match. It will be our biggest bet for good publicity yet," her mood suddenly darkened into that all too familiar death glare, "and if I find out any one of you was unprepared because of the Krillin incident, I will personally rip you all some new mouths to eat with."  
  
The three nodded woodenly as she switched back once more into her happy, if slightly giddy, mood and not quite skipped to her little pavilion.  
  
"Coach," Chaozu was the first to speak, "your wife's scary."  
  
"Yeah, but she sure can cook!" Goku smiled, receiving a funny look from both of the fighters until Tien suddenly put his hand over his forehead and gasped out a muttered oath.  
  
"Tien, what's wrong?" Chaozu called out, alarmed.  
  
"Crap! I think she gave me a paper-cut in my third eye!"  
  
  
  
  
  
Birds.  
  
Normally, these sounds would be a welcome awakening for Yamcha, but today the high-pitched twittering seemed to be going out of its way to scratch against his brain. He pulled his pillow over his head with a groan, the ache in his head magnified by their incessant chirruping. The birds' song penetrated through, despite the fighter's efforts, and he randomly shot out an energy blast, hoping it would incinerate, or at least frighten off, the annoying creatures outside his window. He received a prompt "squawk!" and grunted in a satisfied manner before turning over, his head still under his pillow.  
  
It took him a while to realize that, strangely, he was in his own bed.  
  
And even stranger, he did not remember how he got there.  
  
"YAMCHA!"  
  
The scarred fighter bolted upright, only to be nearly taken down again by the searing pain in his head, and the remarkably strong tackle of a certain blue feline. He supported himself up with his arm against the bed, feeling the back of his head and not being surprised to find an extremely large, sore bump elevating past his short hair. "Puar, could you get off me please?" he attempted to push the cuddling cat away from his waist, but to no avail.  
  
"You've been out for days!" the clutching creature squeaked at Yamcha while still refusing to release him. " I was so worried about you! Don't you ever go and pick a fight with Piccolo again!"  
  
Yamcha kept rubbing the back of his head, gingerly brushing his fingers across the new protuberance on his skull. "Piccolo?" he questioned groggily.  
  
"Yeah, Piccolo," Puar looked at him quizzically. "Don't you remember?"  
  
Yamcha stood up and was dismayed to find that he was still in the same clothes he had been before he lost consciousness. They did not smell pretty. "How many days have I been out?"  
  
"Five and a half," answered Puar, circling around her master worriedly. "It's almost noon."  
  
No wonder his clothes stank.  
  
"I was really worried about you, Yamcha," the floating ball of fluff continued. "You should probably eat something now, though. You were unconscious the whole time you were here, so . . ."  
  
Yamcha did not hear anything after that as his mind tried to grasp the drifting memories flitting about in his head, just out of his reach. He walked over to his closet and pulled out a new pair of pants, completely oblivious to the incessant babbling of his life-long companion while chasing after his recollective quarry. The past events of about five days ago slowly came back to him, the misty haze around each one dissipating at the same speed as the lethargic, tired feeling that kept pulling at his eyelids.  
  
*"Goku! Sign her up now!"*  
  
The tryouts. Krillin had been beaten easily, which was no small feat, by a girl. And not just any girl, but . . .  
  
*"Bulma! Don't go giving away our weaknesses to her!"  
  
"Bulma? Bulma Briefs?"*  
  
Listening outside what had served as a makeshift office for Chichi and Goku he had overheard the woman's conversation with his manager and the blonde fighter Eighteen. Bulma, who was the bane of his existence, who was always at his side . . .  
  
*"I am the Tournament Ghost."*  
  
. . . who was being held captive by a sadistic murderer that could live for eternity residing in the place where most of his fondest memories with Bulma were, not to mention where other strange undergoings had occurred. Before, he had not been sure of the Tournament Ghost's existence, but now . . . now he had plenty of reason to believe, and he was holding his girlfriend hostage in the very same stadium that they had dubbed as their "place."  
  
*"Yamcha . . . just tell us where the stadium is . . ."  
  
"But . . . but you don't believe me. The ghost is real, honest!"  
  
"I'm sure it is, Yamcha. And now we're going to go save Bulma. Tell us where the stadium is."  
  
"You're going to help? Great! I'll just come wi—"  
  
"No! I mean, no, you just tell us where it is and get some rest. You must be very tired."  
  
"Well . . .now that you mention it . . . I am a little tired . . ."  
  
"Yes. Now, where is that stadium?"  
  
"Take first street for *yawn* about five miles and take your second right after your pass West Avenue. You can't *yawn, stretch* miss it."*  
  
Sometimes it amazed him how crafty Goku's wife could be. With just a brief awakening after his initial collision with Piccolo's fist and a few drops of sleeping tonic, she had managed to get him to divulge everything that she needed to know without him even suspecting that she was up to something. If there was any one reason he had been unconscious for the past five days, it was because Chichi had overdosed him with that tonic. He was fairly sure by now that Chichi did not help save Bulma, and had other, more self-serving plans for that stadium.  
  
And he was going to find out what they were.  
  
"Yamcha? Yamcha, are you even listening to me?"  
  
"Huh?" the ex-desert bandit started out of his reverie and looked at his feline companion. Puar glared back at him.  
  
"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" she snapped.  
  
"No," Yamcha looked bashfully at the floor, suddenly finding it interesting to drag his toe in random patterns over the carpeting.  
  
"Honestly, Yamcha," Puar squeaked, "you never listen to a word I say. It happens every time I start talking to you, especially when I ask you to do something. Like this," she pointed to the nearly invisible floor under the surface layer of clothes. "I told you two weeks ago to pick all of this stuff up, but did you listen to me then? No! You just kept on—"  
  
"Puar, I have to go the old stadium right now," Yamcha interrupted.  
  
"See?! You did it again! You're ignoring me!" the little cat looked like she was going to cry.  
  
"Puar, don't worry, I'm not ignoring you," the fighter tried to console his despairing friend. "I'll clean up when I get back. I just have to leave right now. Bye!" he rushed towards the door.  
  
"Yamcha, wait!"  
  
He stopped in the doorway to pass an exasperated glare at her. "What is it now, Puar?"  
  
The cat put a paw over her mouth to smother a giggle. "Aren't you forgetting something?" she glanced down at his legs before looking back up at his face.  
  
"What?" he followed Puar's gaze to see his bare legs and *very* brightly coloured boxers, each grinning yellow happy-face staring back at him. He blushed.  
  
"I thought it felt a little drafty."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Got any fours?"  
  
"Go fish," Chaozu smiled.  
  
"Darn it!" Goku grumbled as he leaned over and picked a card from the deck. Upon receiving another non-match, he stuffed the offending card in his hand grumbling out, "I never win at this game!"  
  
"You can't be good at everything, Goku," Chaozu lectured sagely. He turned to his left. "Hey, Tien, got any sixes?"  
  
"Man, this hurts like a mother f—"  
  
"Tien!"  
  
The triclops blinked from beneath his new ice pack to his friend. "What?"  
  
Chaozu cleared his throat. "Do you have any sixes?"  
  
"Yeah, hold on," Tien grumbled as he set down the ice and picked up his cards, flicking a six of hearts to the diminutive fighter. Chaozu caught it easily.  
  
"Thanks, Tien," he put the pair in his ever-increasing stack with his chubby, white hand. "Do you have any twos?"  
  
"Go fish."  
  
The smile never leaving his face, Chaozu picked up a two of clubs from the pile and was about to set the cards down in his little accumulation of pairs when . . .  
  
"Hiya, Yamcha!" Goku called out cheerily, despite the fact that he had yet to secure a match in their little card game.  
  
Yamcha closed the door on his aircar, squinting his eyes from the dust and the afternoon sunlight so scrutinize the area around him. *I knew Chichi was up to something! She must have bought this stadium and started repairing it. Oh man . . . I hope they didn't notice that *I* was the one who broke that door down . . .*  
  
"What brings you here?" Goku asked congenially.  
  
"I actually came here to talk to Chichi, if you don't mind, that is . . ."  
  
"I don't mind," the petite brunette said as she walked over to where all the fighters were standing, taking a reprieve from playing slavemaster . . . er . . . contractor. She smirked evilly. "Did you have a nice sleep, Yamcha?"  
  
"Yeah, thanks to those knock-out drops you gave me!" he growled.  
  
Chichi blinked her big black eyes in an attempt to look innocent with a straight face. "But Yamcha, how else was I going to find out where the stadium was?"  
  
"I guess you could've asked Bulma," Chaozu said helpfully.  
  
Yamcha's ears perked up at the sound of Bulma's name.  
  
"Bulma? But I haven't seen her since the tryouts," Chichi said crossing her arms. "I tried calling her at home, but I guess she wasn't there because I got her answering machine."  
  
"You haven't seen Bulma since the tryouts?" Yamcha asked, worried. "But . . . but what if she's still in the—"  
  
A loud crash came from the inside of the stadium as an internal wall was demolished. The sound of the workers shouting orders and the monotonous "bleep-bleep" of the heavy machinery took control of the surprised silence from our select group of fighters.  
  
"BULMA!" Yamcha cried out, running towards the stadium, only to be stopped by Goku's quick reflexes and strong arm.  
  
"Now Yamcha," Goku said, smiling even through the panicked look the fighter's eyes, "we've already checked the stadium before we started the reconstruction. No one's in there but those workers."  
  
"But . . ."  
  
Goku sighed exasperatedly. "Yamcha, Bulma is *not* in there. We haven't seen her since she was at the tryouts. Relax. Sit down. Play some cards with us. Chaozu, deal us in."  
  
"Right!" the little doll-faced fighter agreed, scraping up all the cards to shuffle as a full deck.  
  
"Uh, no thanks Goku," Yamcha composed himself enough to decline politely. "I really need to talk with Chichi."  
  
Goku shrugged. "Okay then."  
  
"But now we have to start the game over," Chaozu stopped in mid-shuffle.  
  
"Oh well. Maybe I'll have a better game this time around," Goku put his hand behind his head and laughed.  
  
Chaozu hmphed. "You're just a sore loser, Coach."  
  
"I am not!" Goku pouted childishly.  
  
Chichi simply smiled at the sheer immaturity of her husband. He never really was good at cards. Walking beside Yamcha until they were out of earshot from the game she turned to him and asked, "So what did you want to talk to me about?"  
  
Yamcha blushed and looked down at his feet. "Well, it's . . . it's a-about . . . uh . . . Bulma."  
  
"What about her?"  
  
"Well, you see . . . uh . . ." he stammered.  
  
"Oh, out with it already," the small brunette demanded, impatient by this stuttering when she had better things to do, namely whipping some of those lazy construction workers back in line.  
  
"WeusedtodateeachotherandnowIdon'tthinksheevenknowsIexistandIneedhelp," he rushed out.  
  
Chichi translated. "So . . . you used to date each other and now you don't think she knows you exist. Do you still like her, or do you just want her back because you find her familiar?"  
  
"Chichi, I'm in love with this woman!" Yamcha chose as his answer. "She's my night and my day! When she walks in the room, everything's in slow- motion and I feel—"  
  
"Okay, okay. So you're in love with her. Why don't you tell her that?"  
  
"Well first of all, I haven't been able to get a hold of her since the night of the tryouts," Yamcha began ticking off items on his fingers. "Second, I don't know exactly what to say to her because third of all, she might have changed over the past five years."  
  
"Are you sure that you didn't change?" Chichi asked.  
  
"Well, no. I don't think I did, but it's pretty hard to gauge if you've changed or not. To yourself, you're always just the same as you were a few seconds ago."  
  
*Not all the time,* Chichi thought, remembering back to the sudden change she had undergone when she had given birth to Gohan. The once timid, fragile girl had, within the space of time that she had heard those first few gasping cries that signified the creation of a new life, become a strong, protective mother, and, in all the word's definitive entirety, a woman. She distinctly remembered that change. "Well then," she blinked back that beautiful memory, "why don't you just tell her how you feel anyway. It sure would take a lot of the pressure off you. And we certainly don't need pressure on you before the grand opening, now do we?"  
  
"But how do I tell her?" Yamcha sat down on a conveniently located piece of debris from the stadium's reconstruction. He ran his hands through his cropped hair in a frustrated manner.  
  
"Well," Chichi surmised, "since you don't seem to want personal contact, why don't you try with a note and schedule to meet her somewhere?"  
  
"But where would I leave the note? We haven't been able to find her, remember?"  
  
"You did say that you saw her come into this stadium, didn't you?" Chichi answered his question with a question.  
  
"Yeah, but . . ."  
  
"Then why don't you just leave the note where you last saw her? I'm sure she'll find it."  
  
Yamcha blinked articulately before coming up with another complaint about her suggestion. "But how do we know that she'll come back here? The Tournament Ghost—"  
  
"—is just a legend. I am absolutely positive that *that* particular load of crap doesn't exist," Chichi said haughtily, her nose slightly lifting into the air.  
  
"What makes you so sure?" he asked skeptically.  
  
She winked at him, holding a familiar piece of paper in her hand. "Because ghost's can't use pens. Now go on and get that girl already. I've got other things to do besides give romance advice."  
  
*That seems like a pretty sketchy answer to what's been going on, but then again, so is believing in a ghost,* Yamcha supposed. Perhaps Chichi was right. Perhaps he was just hallucinating because of some bad food. Perhaps Bulma would come back and see his note. Perhaps everything was as it should be.  
  
"Goku! Stop trying to look at my cards!"  
  
"I'm not cheating, I swear!"  
  
"Great, just great. Now I've got paper-cuts on my fingers from these cards."  
  
Oh yes, everything was just fine.  
  
Chichi smiled as she walked over to her husband. "Goku, just face it. You're not good at cards and you never will be. Now come on, we've got work to do."  
  
Tien snorted, still dabbing his ice pack on his wounded eye. "Like figure out a way to catch Krillin red-handed?"  
  
Yamcha blinked, confused. "Krillin? What did he do?"  
  
Chichi crossed her arms, closing her eyes and scowling a bit. "Oh nothing much really. He only tried to sabotage all that I've worked for by putting himself in league with Kame Team because of that blonde-haired hussy Eighteen."  
  
"What?" Yamcha said with a shocked expression on his face.  
  
Chichi took a deep, I'm-going-to-start-my-ranting-now breath as the rest of the fighters prepared to cover their ears for her own scathing explanation of her solution for the Krillin problem.  
  
"You just had to get her started, didn't you?" Chaozu accused Tien.  
  
Sabotage, betrayal, unrequited romance, mystery, and a bit of supernatural on the side. Ah yes, everything was just fine.  
  
  
  
  
  
Something was wrong with this whole picture, Piccolo had concluded. He was never one to believe in the paranormal, but the incidents associated with the old stadium that Goku's harpy wife had insisted on purchasing were just too unreal and too coincidental. Someone, or some*thing* was behind all of this, and Piccolo was going to find out exactly what was going on around here.  
  
"Never thought I'd see the day when I came to *his* door asking for help," he muttered as he grasped the gilded doorknocker in his green hand, rapping it in a steady rhythm "That old coot better be home . . ." he grumbled.  
  
No sooner had his words trailed off the door opened briskly, allowing him to see the dark face of Mr. Popo. The little genie tilted his head in recognition. "Ah, Piccolo," he greeted sociably, "it's very nice to see you, sir. Please come inside. It's getting awfully chilly out about now," he glanced to the nearly set sun on the horizon.  
  
Piccolo refused to say anything as he stepped through the door, Popo closing it behind him. His emerald face stoically gazed forward as he took in the plain, yet lavish surroundings of the house of one of the most prestigious tournament judges in history. Though the house was an opulent size, the ornamentation consisted solely of white marble and a few gold trimmings for variation of the cold white. The polished columns and smooth white floor glistened in the scant moonlight that passed through the embellished windows, giving the room the feeling of a museum after closing time. After a while, Mr. Popo coughed, the sound echoing in the cavernous room and calling attention to himself before speaking.  
  
"Have you come here to see Kami?" the plump servant inquired politely.  
  
Piccolo merely focused a glance in Popo's direction, barely able to distinguish the dark man's form from the shadows of the house's interior. Popo cleared his throat again and took that as a yes.  
  
"Well then, right this way," he ascended a great staircase to the upper level of the house, Piccolo falling in behind him. Reaching the top, Popo led the tall Namek to a door at the end of the hall, the light filtering between the cracks indicating that it was occupied. Piccolo wasted no more time in formalities and opened the door roughly before Mr. Popo could get a word in edgewise.  
  
"All right, Old Man. I want some answers. Now."  
  
In the weak lamplight, one could barely make out the wrinkled, aged features of another Namekian, his scrutinous black eyes lifting off a paper he was reviewing to greet this newcomer. His desk sprouted a forest of deeds, documents, and other miscellaneous forms, each neatly placed into towering stacks that loomed over the elderly green man. Kami smiled wryly.  
  
"So, Piccolo. I see you've finally decided to visit me. And willingly at that."  
  
Piccolo growled. "You know I'd never visit you unless I needed something. I want information."  
  
Kami's smile broadened as he set down the paper that he was reading previously. "Well, I see your manners haven't changed."  
  
"I didn't come her to discuss my manners, you old bag!" Piccolo slammed his fist on the desk, causing the ice in Kami's glass of water to clink and two stacks of paper to fall to the floor. "I came to figure out what's going on!"  
  
"Going on where?" Kami questioned nonchalantly, resuming his reading of the paper before him.  
  
"At the old stadium on First Street," Piccolo ground out, irritated at his elder's passiveness.  
  
"What about it?" Kami ceased his reading and straightened out one of the disheveled stacks.  
  
"What do you mean 'what about it?'" the younger Namek bellowed. "Six years and three months ago two bodies were found at ringside in that stadium, shortly after their primary promoter was killed under 'unknown circumstances.' The stadium was abandoned from then on, but four years ago there were complaints of flashing lights and screaming coming from it. Just this week someone's claimed to have seen a woman abducted there. The rumours say that it's some sort of ghost. I. Want. To. Know. What's. Going. On."  
  
Kami merely kept reorganizing his desk from Piccolo's assault prior. He diligently opened his drawer, placing his many pens within it, then closing it with an audible 'click' before moving on to sorting his papers. After about a minute of waiting, he finally had his desk arranged to his satisfaction and glanced up with a look that read something along the lines of: 'Oh, you're still here? Silly me.'  
  
Kami smirk returned. "I'm surprised you haven't figured it out on your own by now."  
  
"And just what do you mean by that?!" Piccolo swiped his arm across the desk, effectively ruining Kami's past efforts of cleanliness. Popo scurried to the other side of the desk to try to repair the damage.  
  
"You really don't remember, do you Piccolo?"  
  
"Don't remember what?!" Piccolo demanded.  
  
Kami let out a low chuckle before beginning his story, then suddenly turned serious.  
  
"You were there. About seven years ago a man named Frieza blazed a path of destruction that encompassed most of the planet. Not one person could escape his mighty arm, and they either fell dead to him, were kept as prisoners, or reluctantly bowed to him. Have I sparked your memory yet, Piccolo?"  
  
Piccolo kept a stony expression. "Go on."  
  
"Of course," Kami nodded his head. "We were two of those that were kept as prisoners after Frieza had burned our village to the ground and slaughtered most of the inhabitants. Do you remember that too, Piccolo?"  
  
Piccolo said nothing, and Kami took it as an affirmative to continue.  
  
"And I'll bet you also recall exactly how those dungeons looked, felt, and smelled, don't you? Well, do you remember then, Piccolo, what you did? You broke us out of our chains and led an escape, though only four of us were left alive to attempt it. You remember that, don't you?"  
  
"Of course I remember that, Old Man. I just don't se the correlation between that little incident and the situation at the old stadium," Piccolo said in a strangely subdued way.  
  
"The correlation is, Piccolo," Kami frowned, "that while you made our escape attempt, you diverted Frieza's attention from one of his subjects. Now don't tell me you can't see the correlation between that and the stadium."  
  
Slowly, as though sorting through memories, Piccolo's eyes widened in recognition and he gradually removed his hand from the desk and backed away. "You mean that I . . ."  
  
Kami solemnly shook his head in a concurring manner. "Yes."  
  
"And that man we saw . . ."  
  
"Yes."  
  
There was silence for a moment before Piccolo's eyes suddenly went from shocked to resolute and he turned around with a, "Thanks for the information, Old Man. Don't expect me back any time soon."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it," Kami slipped back into his cordial manner.  
  
Piccolo made it about ten steps before he glanced sidelong at the senior Namek and asked almost too softly to be heard, "How is the Namek Restoration Project going?"  
  
"It's going quite well, actually. We should have most them in homes by the end of this year."  
  
Piccolo nodded and stepped past the doorway without another word, his white cape swishing behind him and an expression on his face that looked as though he could care less about what he had been told, signifying the end of his part of the conversation. The sound of his pointed brown shoes brushing softly across the marble floor finally disappeared as Mr. Popo finished reorganizing the papers on Kami's desk, the brown genie looking in his master's direction when he heard the older Namekian address no one in particular.  
  
"Funny thing is, most of the funding seems to be coming from a certain martial arts trainer," the wise old Namek smiled. "I think there's hope for you yet, Piccolo. There's hope for you yet."  
  
And Popo was left to figure out what that meant on his own.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bulma wiped her brow, the coolness in the air contrasting uncomfortably with the heat her body emitted from her long night of training. Exhaustedly, she stepped down from the small replica of the tournament arena, its white tiles shining in the faint fluorescent lighting of the training room. She padded to the white sink, her sneakers accidentally stepping in a puddle from the leaking pipe because of the dimmed lighting. Muttering something about careless reconstruction workers, she turned on the sink and splashed herself with the cool water to clear the salty sweat from her face. Wiping her face on the towel provided, she stepped lightly to her bag, pulling out a change of clothes and vanishing behind the large folding screen. Her clothes changed, her lessons over, and her body exhausted, she sat on the edge of the miniature fighting ring, her bag at her side and her head in her hand.  
  
Not for the first time in the past few months, Bulma wondered how she had gotten where she was. It seemed like only yesterday that she stepped into the old stadium for no reason she could fathom and heard the voice of the ghost or angel or whatever that she had affectionately, in a loose sense, dubbed as 'Grumpy.' Everything was so different from the way things were five years ago, it became difficult to even remember that time. From what Bulma could piece together, those times were full of laughter, happiness, long walks on the beach, trips to the park, and kissing on the front porch.  
  
They were also monotonous and boring. Though she had not felt so at the time, she could tell now that if she went back to that, it would never feel the same. Ever since that day she had walked into the stadium that dark night, the chance to train for the tournaments gave her a feeling of excitement, adrenaline, and . . . something that she could not quite place. Now she had something to look forward to, and she had no idea what the result would be.  
  
And she liked that.  
  
That was not to say that she had second thoughts about this training. As much as she was learning and as skilled as she had become, she could not help the feeling that her 'trainer' was always hiding something. It was one thing to say that you were dead. It was quite another to claim to be a homicidal spectre. Bulma had come to the conclusion that this man was either covering something, or was very much insane. But as long as Bulma kept improving in her martial arts, she decided to overlook that. Though, that did not mean it was far from her mind every time she spoke with 'Grumpy.'  
  
'Grumpy' confused her to no end. One minute he was as closed off as a dead end street, the next she could almost swear that he was cracking a smile. He laughed, he joked, and he was even almost *nice* on occasion, albeit those three actions came rarely unless it was at her expense. If all ghosts were like this, Bulma was pretty sure she would not mind meeting them.  
  
And that was another thing on Bulma's mind. Though she had spoken with the ghost, trained with him, and even laughed with him on those rare occasions he was in an amiable mood, she had never actually met him face to face. Sure, she had come to know his moods, expressions, and all around character through the mere inflection of his rough voice, but there was just something special about your first actual meeting. And the fact that she had never spoken to Grumpy in person aggravated her. He seemed to find amusement in playing with her mind indirectly, so she would be at a disadvantage countering.  
  
Well, that was something she would just have to change.  
  
"Contemplating the universe, are we Woman?"  
  
Bulma snapped up from her speculations and smiled. "Well you know us geniuses. Always analyzing something."  
  
"Hn. You should give it a rest and go home. You've had a long day."  
  
Bulma laughed a little. "Why Grumpy, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were actually concerned for me!"  
  
"Hardly," the room snorted disdainfully. "I just don't want to have to train a dead sack of crap tomorrow night."  
  
"Oh of course," Bulma said sarcastically. She took her mentor's hint and picked up her bag, heading out the door, rolling her eyes along the way. "Try not to kill any construction workers tomorrow. I know they're annoying, but they're only doing their job, Grumpy."  
  
Grumpy hmphed. "They should do their job somewhere else. These rooms are in perfect condition."  
  
"Fine, whatever," Bulma surrendered to his stubbornness. "Just no casualties, okay?"  
  
"Agreed."  
  
"Stubborn, stuck-up jerk," she muttered as she passed through the doorway.  
  
"Moronic, melodramatic woman," Grumpy countered.  
  
He got a slammed door in response.  
  
Bulma did not know whether to laugh or fume. They always departed the same way. She would insult him, he would insult her, and she'd slam the door on him. That was pretty much the only predictable event in her day. The same types of insults, the same sound of the slamming door, the same reverberation in the hallway, the same note fluttering to the floor . . . wait a minute . . .  
  
Bulma stooped and picked up the falling scrap of paper, noting the piece of tape that had been used to attach it to the door, but had proved ineffectual to her slamming it. She examined the handwriting on quickly scribbled 'Bulma' written on the front, though she could not exactly place where she had seen it before. Seeing no other writing on that side, she turned it over, reading softly to herself.  
  
*"Nothing has changed. I've kept my promise and come back to you. Meet me here tomorrow night. I haven't forgotten you."*  
  
  
  
. . . and the plot thickens . . .  
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yay! I'm alive! And I wrote an extra long chapter! Woohoo! Okay . . . PLEASE REVIEW MY STORY! One of the reasons why this took so long is because of the LACK OF SUPPORT from SOME PEOPLE. *coughcough, Jason, coughcough* Well, I'm sorry for the whole 'contemplativeness' of this chapter, but it's necessary. There are MANY things going on here, and people have to pay attention to all the stuff in the background to understand future chapters. So, if you just skimmed over it, go and read it again, because a lot of stuff is major foreshadowing. Anywho, all of you must read 'ROMANCE IDIOTS WITH HIGH KI' by ZippyDragon*43 in case you didn't get my liminal and subliminal messages. I hope to hear from you all in YOUR REVIEWS. Love you all (but I love you more WHEN YOU REVIEW)!  
  
~Chunks  
  
Oh and by the way, does anyone know what those folding changing screens are called? I'm tired of repeating the whole 'folding screen' and 'changing screen' and just the word 'screen' in general.  
  
^_^ Have a nice day AFTER YOU REVIEW. Sorry. Some people are really dense.  
  
REVIEW!  
  
REVIEW!  
  
REVIEW!  
  
I'm going for 20, okay? Give me twenty or I'll post an author's note on why I need reviews. I'm warning you! I'll do it too! Don't think I won't do it! 


	5. The Mirror and A Run of Bad Luck

Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ. Hmm . . . who *does* own DBZ? Hmm . . . own . . . own . . . Well, the gerund form of own is owning, and owning sounds like homing, and homing is like housing because both house and home are a building where people live in . . . and housing is similar to mousing, and that's what cats do. Cat sounds like bat, and bats are associated with Batman, and Batman's alter ego is Bruce Wayne, and he's a rich playboy. Playboys have models around and models come from foreign places a lot. Okayama is a foreign place, and Okayama is a seaport and textile- manufacturing city of Japan and Japan has lots of Shinto temples. Shinto temples have torii gateways and the word torii is a lot like the beginning of Toriyama and, therefore, the owner of DBZ must be Akira Toriyama. My, wasn't that informative?  
  
Also: Read ZippyDragon*43's 'Romance Idiots With High Ki.' It is *very* funny and she is cool and stuff.  
  
  
  
The Mirror and A Run of Bad Luck  
  
  
  
Angel of Music, guide and guardian  
  
Grant to me your glory!  
  
Angel of Music, hide no longer  
  
Come to me, strange Angel!  
  
  
  
  
  
Red and black. Hearts and clubs. Gilded faces staring back.  
  
The boy across from him smirks in triumph, laying his cards down with a note of finality. A royal flush brandishes its splendour with each pointed spade, signifying yet another win for him. Goku's eyes gleam, youthful, naïve and expectant to see if he has won or not, but the boy shakes his head with a smile and confiscates all the goods in the pot. Despite Goku's attempts to play another round, the boy stubbornly refuses and continues counting and re-counting his newfound winnings, completely engrossed in the process.  
  
Seeing the boy otherwise occupied and not about to move any time soon, Goku turns his attention back to the cards. Rather than ponder their worth or importance in the game, he spreads them out and, picking them up one by one, admires the beautiful ornamentation on every one of them, only stopping to gaze into the single eye of the jack of spades. The jack does not to look at him, but continues to stare off into the distance. He continues to pick up cards and look at them.  
  
Red and black. Hearts and clubs. Gilded faces staring back.  
  
Except for the jack.  
  
He has found the black jack yet again, for his shuffling is poor. He picks it up and stares at it even more intently, holding it up right in front of his face. Lowering the card, he sees the boy in the background, staring off in the same direction and the profile nearly matching. Goku giggles at his new discovery and looks at the jack once more to confirm it. He smiles yet again upon the validation of his observation, but quickly frowns. He sees the jack alone, staring off to where none of the other cards look to, silent and resigned to eternally turn away from the others.  
  
It is unfortunate that he does not realize that the jack of hearts does the same, and, when placed side by side, stares at the other.  
  
Now bored of his card-gazing, Goku steps away from his table and searches for big brother Raditz, his form easy to spot with his long black hair. Upon reaching him, Goku pulls sharply on the spiky locks, and is greeted with a quick turn and a growl-turned-smile. Goku, still too young to form many coherent words yet, simply raises his arms in a pleading gesture. Raditz takes the hint and lifts his pint-sized body onto his shoulder. Goku laughs at the sudden change in altitude, snuggling into his brother's rough hair and enjoying the funny, prickly feeling it gives him.  
  
A feeling of panic suddenly invades the scene as a wall crumbles to the ground, revealing several shadowed forms.  
  
Chaos.  
  
People run from place to place, panic in their eyes and disturbingly muted screams coming from their terrified lips. Goku clings to his brother's hair for support, only to find the teenager withering beneath him as an energy blast pierces Raditz's chest and exits through the other side, carrying blood and burnt bits of flesh with it. Goku cannot hear his brother's last few gurgling breaths as they both fall to the floor. He cannot hear anything around him. The horrifying, yet strangely familiar sequence of events plays before him in a hauntingly echoing silence.  
  
He is shaking Raditz forcefully, willing him to wake up. Father comes, pulling Goku away from his brother's smoking corpse and hands him urgently into Mother's quivering arms. He shouts something to her over the turmoil and she argues. His eyes look stony and resolute as he looks off to where the figures are fighting with the others. He speaks and Mother tries to interject again, but he pushes her out the back door and into the cold night.  
  
Mother is crying.  
  
She holds Goku closer to her body, her still quivering arms and cascading black hair offering little warmth against the chilling night wind. She looks into the windows of the house they have just left her eyes reflect the flashes of gold and red seen through the window. Through the empty silence, Goku can hear one thing cutting though it.  
  
Laughter. Malicious, abhorrent laughter piercing the night air with its icy chill.  
  
Mother runs.  
  
Goku presses closer to Mother, seeking warmth from the biting wind that whips across their bodies as she rushes over the cool grass of the countryside close-by. Time seems immeasurable as Mother races over hills and weaves between the trees, her pounding feet against the ground making a rapid, but steady, rhythm. The moon shines down on them, not quite full, but just enough to feel oppressing, like it is an enemy searchlight spotting them out. Goku bounces and jostles along as Mother runs, his wide, black eyes just able to peer over her shoulder.  
  
There is something behind them.  
  
Looming shadows close in on them as Mother reaches a ravine. She slides down the side, careful to protect her charge, but unfortunately leaving an even more noticeable trail of dust behind her. She refuses to look back and starts climbing the other side of the ravine, but the shadows catch her before she can finish the trek. They swoop down upon her, their fingers glowing with deadly light.  
  
Goku feels himself flying through the night air and landing on a hard surface, hitting his head and looking upward into the faraway branches of a tall tree above him, his last conscious thought of how nice the stars look when they peer from behind the dark leaves. The struggle between Mother and the shadows continues, but he is not awake to see it.  
  
The infinite expanse of time continues its progress, though Goku remains unaware of how much of it has passed. He looks up and still sees the stars winking at him from behind the rustling boughs of the tall tree, still smells the scent of sweet, countryside grass, still feels the wind caressing his face like a mother's touch, though Mother is not with him.  
  
Or is she?  
  
Goku looks to his side, some unknown feeling dictating his actions now. A body lies beside him, one arm clasped around his tiny waist. The wind brushes across the long, raven locks of hair, silken tendrils trailing behind the thin, zephyr's threads in the night, though most are matted down by a thick, pungent substance.  
  
Blood.  
  
All he can see is red. Blood is everywhere; he is surrounded by it, breathing it in. The stench makes it hard for him to breathe as he lies there, listening as screams resonate through the air. He has the distinct feeling that most of them are his. The dead do not scream.  
  
"!!GOKU!!"  
  
Goku's eyes snapped open and he immediately became aware of the change of surroundings. He sat up in his bed slowly, his sweat making the sheets stick to him despite his ascent and the law of gravity. The moonlight filtering through the billowing sheers illuminated the soft bedding, making the face of his worried wife clearly visible and her concerned eyes seem even wider.  
  
"Goku? Goku, are you all right?" she put her hand on his shoulder to steady him.  
  
He put a hand over his eyes, willing himself to wake completely from the nightmare. His breath still coming out in short gasps, he finally managed to calm himself enough to look at her and answer.  
  
"Y-yeah. I'm fine."  
  
Chichi breathed a sigh of relief at his words, but frowned as she took in his pale face and sweating form, feeling his forehead for his temperature. "Are you sure, you're not getting sick or something? You feel a little warm."  
  
"No . . . n-not sick," he murmured through his heaving.  
  
"Okay, then," Chichi said to him, unconvinced. "I just don't want you getting sick before tomorrow, Goku," she rushed out quickly, "because you know we have to show the guys the stadium since it's all finished, and I know you've been looking forward to it. I wouldn't want you to miss it."  
  
Goku smiled to his wife. She was always trying to look out for her family's interests. He forced his breath to come out evenly as he mentally erased the dream from his mind, though he had a sinking feeling it would not be suppressed so easily.  
  
"It was nothing really."  
  
"You're sure? I could get you some medicine if you want me t—"  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure," he interrupted her. "Go back to sleep."  
  
  
  
  
  
The grandeur of the transformed stadium could be described with one word in Tien's opinion: excessive. He preferred a more practical view on things, and the elaborate ornamentation around the door did not sit well with him. The renovation of the walls, he knew, were necessary; the installation of a stronger door was good foresight to prevent future problems with it; the large, added windows allowed for more light to enter the normally caliginous coliseum; but the two gilded dragons curling around the corners at the top of the door were completely unnecessary. No one could see them, really. Their emerald-tipped tails wound behind the outer- border of the entrance, unable to be seen or noticed by the general public. Their golden scales gleamed to the sky, above anyone's eye level. Their ruby eyes were placed at such an angle that one was required to be at least ten feet tall to have a chance of viewing them. The only way Tien had been able to see any of this was because he had flown in and landed in front of the stadium. Tien snorted. This was obviously Chichi's work. First of all, Goku could not design anything if you gave him a lobotomy with an architect, and second, only a woman could spend that much money on something so pointless.  
  
And he hated pointless things.  
  
He also hated waiting for late arrivals.  
  
Chaozu floated up to eye-level with him, the wide whites of his eyes contrasting very little against the pallor of his skin. "What's the matter, Tien?"  
  
"They're late," he ground out, kicking a bit of dust with his booted toe.  
  
"Well, don't worry, I'm sure they'll get here soon," his alabaster ears perked up when he heard the low rumble of an aircar. "In fact, some of them are coming right now."  
  
Tien's three eyes darted quickly to the direction of Chaozu's attention and saw the tell-tale stream of dust trailing behind a white aircar, the most obvious clue of its ownership being the bright orange clothing one of the passengers was wearing.  
  
"It's about time," Tien grumbled.  
  
The car parked itself neatly into the allotted space for the managers, its occupants stepping out of it and heading toward the two awaiting fighters. Upon their approach, Chaozu, his smile never wavering, chirruped, "Good morning Miss Chichi! Hi Coach Goku! And you too, Gohan!"  
  
"Hello Chaozu," Chichi said pleasantly while holding on to little Gohan's hand, "but I believe it's around noon by now."  
  
"Yeah, and I've been waiting for about a half an hour," Tien muttered under his breath just too soft for Chichi's volatile temper to hear.  
  
"It was a rough night," Chichi glossed over the details of the previous night's happenings.  
  
Before either Tien or Chaozu could ask for an elaboration, Gohan suddenly exclaimed, "Look! It's Mr. Piccolo!" and happily skipped off to greet his tutor who had just floated down to ground level.  
  
The Namekian sneered at the reconstructed stadium. "It's a bit gaudy for my tastes, but I suppose it'll do."  
  
Chichi hmphed at him. "Well, you're not going to be fighting in it, so I suggest you keep your criticism to yourself."  
  
*That's probably the wisest choice for survival,* Tien thought, shutting his mouth tightly so that his not-so-ecstatic comments could be kept in check.  
  
"Hey guys!" Krillin shouted, walking toward the group while tucking in his slightly rumpled shirt. As he passed by Piccolo, the Namek's eyes focused on a rosy spot at the end of the bald man's collar, but decided to keep silent about the matter. It appeared that Chichi's notorious temper was in an extremely pouncy mood today.  
  
"Where's the rest of the gang?" he cocked his head curiously to the side.  
  
Goku looked around quizzically. "It looks like everyone except Yamcha and Bulma are here. Should we start without them, Chichi?"  
  
"You can't start without me!" Bulma shouted to them, running to the newly congregated crowed from her apparently hastily parked aircar, if the skid-marks were any sign.  
  
"Well I guess that only leaves Yamcha out," Chichi said. "But he's always late for everything, so I guess we can start without him."  
  
"All right! I can't wait to see what this place looks like!" Krillin said excitedly, unaware of the suspicious looks he got from Tien, Chaozu, and Chichi.  
  
Shaking her head quickly, Chichi regained her sense of what she was supposed to be doing at that moment. She pulled out her master key and clicked the lock open, the great doors slowly opening and the crowd around her all curiously poking their heads to get a better view, except for Piccolo, who, as always, felt he had better things he could be doing, and Bulma, who happened to be picking at her nails.  
  
"Welcome to Dragon Stadium," Chichi smiled brilliantly while positioning her arms like a game-show hostess. "Let's start the tour, then. Follow me."  
  
  
  
  
  
"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!" Yamcha hurriedly pulled shirt over his head, almost falling over in the process. "Puar," he yelled into the next room, "why didn't you wake me up?!"  
  
Puar stopped flipping her pancakes just long enough to answer from the kitchen. "Well, you came home so late and you were sleeping so peacefully, I just couldn't wake you up. I'm sorry," her little chef's hat drooped with her apology.  
  
"You knew I had to be at the stadium at eleven-thirty!" he skidded into the kitchen, still pulling his shirt over his head while trying to locate the table through the fabric covering his eyes. "You should have gotten me up!"  
  
"Sorry," she said sincerely as she set his breakfast on the table.  
  
Yamcha's head finally popped through his shirt when he looked at his oldest friend and said, "Don't worry, Puar. I'm not mad at you. I'm just a little upset about being late, that's all."  
  
"But Yamcha," she clasped her paws over her "kiss the cook" apron, "you're always late. What's so upsetting about this time?"  
  
Yamcha stuffed a convenient pancake into his mouth.  
  
"Were you going to meet someone?" the little cat persisted.  
  
Yamcha downed a glass of orange juice.  
  
Puar sighed a little at his evasiveness. Sitting down for some breakfast herself, she discarded her cooking attire and looked up at Yamcha for one last question.  
  
"This wouldn't be about Bul—"  
  
"Bye Puar! Gotta go!" Yamcha called from outside the door, the sound of his hurrying footsteps clearly audible as he rushed away.  
  
Sighing again, Puar continued to eat her breakfast in solitude, muttering something along the lines of, "one of these days I'm going to nail his feet to the floor."  
  
  
  
  
  
"And this is the arena where you'll be fighting," Chichi nonchalantly waved her arm at the enormous room before them. All eyes widened in pure shock of the size of the place, most craning their necks to the point of idiocy to be able to see the highest point of the ceiling that held the skylight. The fluorescent lights encompassing the rest of the domed roof surrounded the glass panels of the skylight, showing that the stadium could be used at any time, day or night, rain or shine. Rows upon rows of seats extended from ground level to the beginning of the dome, a judge's box sitting sedately at the bottom and an extremely luxurious level of seating around the very top edge near the elevated catwalk, the most opulent of the lavish tiers being the northern. The ring where they would actually be doing the fighting shined with its white marble splendour, the tiles extending to cover an incredible amount of area. Extra seating graced the lower level for the fighters awaiting their next battle, close, but not too close, to ringside while concession stands scattered themselves about, some being found near the ring, others miscellaneously placed about the aisle- ways for the audience, and still others placed near the entrance for new arrivals. The grandest and most astounding item in the arena, however, happened to be the enormous jade statue of a dragon entwining itself around a topaz dragonball, part of a legend as old and widespread as the tale of the Tournament Ghost. Each scale gleamed its perfection, the four stars in the dragonball glistening in their ruby brilliance, as did the eyes of the great mythical beast. Claws gripping protectively around the ball, spiked tail shining in the fluorescent lighting, and its overall sculptural magnitude made it a sight to behold.  
  
" . . ." the group said collectively, except for Bulma, who was still picking at her nails.  
  
"I knew I should have used the 'Cute Coral Crush'," she muttered while plucking an offensive chunk of polish off her thumb. "This 'Passion Pink' doesn't match my lipstick . . ."  
  
Krillin was the first to snap out of his shock as he rolled his eyes at Bulma's reaction (or lack thereof) to the evident grandeur of the arena. 'Women," he huffed with a note of disdain and sarcasm. "Always thinking about the most important things in life . . ."  
  
"Uh . . .Chichi," Goku tried to put it nicely, "don't you think that all this is . . . is a bit much?"  
  
"Well, that's what the workers said too," Chichi said, admiring her handiwork, "but how else do you expect to get a female audience to come to the games?"  
  
"Get better-looking fighters?" Bulma suggested brightly, receiving glares from all the fighters except Piccolo, who could care less, Goku, who actually thought it was a serious suggestion due to his naiveté, and Gohan, who was too busy examining the dragon statue.  
  
The son of Goku poked the priceless sculpture with his finger, as all children are inclined to want to touch something that is easily broken. He stepped back and looked at with a scrutinous eye before eliciting a happy, "Well, I like it!"  
  
"And we're happy for you, kid," Tien grumbled out sarcastically, still just out of Chichi's range of hearing.  
  
"Well, I think it's kind of pretty too," Bulma said, giving the statue another glance-over.  
  
"Yeah, Tien," Chaozu looked to the triclops, "it's not *that* bad."  
  
Tien just crossed his arms in a surly way and impatiently tapped his foot. "Are we done here yet? I'm itching for a good spar."  
  
Krillin clasped his hands behind him and cracked his back. "Yeah, It's been a while."  
  
"I think I'll join you," Bulma chimed happily.  
  
"Aren't you worried about breaking a nail or something?" Krillin said disdainfully.  
  
"Very funny."  
  
"Chaozu, why don't you fight too?" Tien suggested. "Then we'd have even teams."  
  
"But I thought Coach Goku would want to," Chaozu looked puzzled. He turned his head in Goku's direction. "Don't you?"  
  
Goku shook his head with a sad little smile. "Thanks Chaozu, but you know I don't. I gave up fighting in tournaments a long time ago."  
  
Krillin laughed. "Yeah, it kind of looses its excitement when you win all of them."  
  
"Not even just a little spar?" Chaozu pleaded.  
  
"Not today. Sorry."  
  
Chaozu sighed. "All right, but it's my funeral."  
  
"I'll fight in your place, Chaozu!" Gohan leapt at the opportunity.  
  
"Really? You will?" the little porcelain fighter brightened. "Great! I really like to referee more anyway . . ."  
  
Gohan eagerly jumped up onto the elevated ring. "Well, I'm ready!"  
  
"Me too," Tien removed his white shirt, revealing his toned muscles and a few battle scars.  
  
"Don't forget me!" Krillin landed himself in the centre of the arena.  
  
"Oh, shoot!" Bulma snapped her fingers angrily. "I left my fighting clothes in my car. I'll be right back," she rushed out and down the hall.  
  
Krillin snorted. "Typical."  
  
"I heard that!"  
  
"Oh?" Krillin said uninterestedly. "And what are you going to do about it? Poke me with your mascara?"  
  
"Krillin, you're really pushing it," Chaozu whispered to the ex-monk.  
  
"Krillin, you're really pushing it!" Bulma yelled from the hall. "Don't forget, I beat you once and I'll do it again!"  
  
"You were lucky!" his shiny head turned an indignant shade of scarlet.  
  
"Lucky my foot! That was pure ski—crap! You made me mess up my hair!" There was shuffling and the sound of the door being slammed in a hurry.  
  
" . . . she has issues," Gohan said, now sitting Indian-style and rocking himself back and forth.  
  
"No, she just needs to get her priorities in order," Tien said sagely.  
  
"She's an arrogant little b—"  
  
"KRILLIN!" Chichi shouted. "Don't even THINK about using that word in my presence!"  
  
"Sorry," the bald man said meekly.  
  
"Well, no use waiting around for her," Tien said. "We all know how long this could take . . . so let's get started then."  
  
"Right!" Gohan cheered excitedly.  
  
"Fine with me," Krillin said.  
  
"All right," Tien smirked, positioning himself in a fighting stance. "Who wants to be the first to go down?"  
  
"I'll take you up on that," Krillin challenged.  
  
"Okay," Chaozu affirmed. "The first fight is Tien versus Krillin."  
  
"Aww, man . . ." Gohan sat down again. "I wanted to fight . . ."  
  
"Get set . . ." Chaozu raised his arm in the air to signal the beginning of the fight. "And . . . G—"  
  
CRASH!  
  
The doors leading into the arena burst open, revealing a very disheveled and . . . face-planted . . . Yamcha.  
  
"Hehe . . ." he said from his position on the ground. "Sorry I'm late."  
  
" . . ."  
  
"What kept you?" Krillin was the first to recover. "Did you have a little rendezvous with Bulma on the way? Eh? Eh?" he winked suggestively.  
  
Yamcha's face went beet-red. "B-Bulma? N-no . . . haven't seen her . . ."  
  
"Yeah, uh huh," Krillin looked at him in a sly sidelong glance. "And I suppose that's just a sunburn on your face and not a blush?"  
  
Yamcha shot up and dusted himself off, trying to maintain a sense of dignity while covering a fake cough with his hand, which also happened to effectively cover the flush in his cheeks.  
  
"Well, are you going to spar with us, Yamcha?" Tien put his hands on his hips impatiently. "Or are you just going to embarrass yourself more?"  
  
"I think I'll take the sparring option," Yamcha chose wisely.  
  
"Yeah," Krillin snickered. "It'd be pretty hard to embarrass yourself anymore than you already have."  
  
Laughter broke out around the room and even Piccolo, who was meditating in the corner, cracked a smile.  
  
"That's it, Chrome Dome," Yamcha growled. "You're going down."  
  
"I'd like to see you try." Krillin leaned on one side cockily and beckoned the scarred ex-desert bandit with his hand. "Bring it on."  
  
Without another word, Yamcha leapt into the air, heading straight for the contemptuous form of Krillin, who had already put up his defenses. The head wind generated from his abrupt ascent ruffled his cropped black hair and rippled his orange fighting uniform. Krillin deepened his stance, ready for the full-on attack, but soon found it totally unnecessary when something unexpected happened.  
  
From up above, there came a distinct sound of something whizzing through the air at a very high speed. All in the room glanced up sharply; even Yamcha stopped himself in mid-air to snap his head in that direction. They could see a flash from the ceiling and something hurtling towards them. In an incredible feat of acceleration, the flash sped downward to the group of waiting fighters in the ring. Suddenly, it swooped and made an abrupt left in its course, coming straight for Yamcha and Gohan. Out of quick reflexes as an experienced fighter, Yamcha was able to jump out of the way in just the nick of time. Unfortunately, Gohan was not so lucky.  
  
He froze.  
  
The fear planted his legs firmly in place, and he was intensely aware of his quickly beating heart. His eyes wide as saucers, he could only watch as the flash raced straight for him, his legs quivering in their adamantine position. In his trembling, frozen form, he could just barely make out two words.  
  
"Oh no."  
  
There was a loud crash and the flash embedded itself into the turf around the ring. Smoke rose from its form, the bright flash flickering dimly. A path of newly dug up dirt lay behind the dulling flash, the trail of destruction obvious in its wake.  
  
Gohan clutched with shivering hands to the form of his father, who held him tightly back, both of them just out of the fallen object's path. No sound remained in the room but the heavy breathing from those frightened nearly to death in the room. Which happened to be everyone.  
  
"What on Earth was that?!" Chichi finally regained her senses as she rushed over to her husband and son. "Oh my gosh, are you two okay? You two could've been killed! What happened?! What was that?! Oh my g—" Goku shushed her by putting his finger on her lips.  
  
"It's all right now, Chichi," he said soothingly. "We're fine."  
  
Gohan quivered a bit more and ran to his mother's side, clutching her leg like any frightened child. Chichi lovingly stroked his wild black hair as she regained her composure. "Yes, it's okay, Sweetie. Mommy's here."  
  
Goku gave his son and wife a once over to ensure they were safe before he turned his attention to the offending object that had nearly cost them their lives. Piccolo was there beside him, his protective glare still centred on Gohan. Goku nodded to the Namek and by some unspoken agreement, they both lifted the object out of the ground and set it on the elevated ring for examination.  
  
"Looks like a light fixture," Goku said, studying it.  
  
Piccolo ran his green hand across the heavy fluorescent light, noting the excess heat coming from it and the distinct smell of something burning or melting. "This light didn't fall on it's own."  
  
"What do you mean?" Tien said from the ring, helping up Chaozu.  
  
"This light was infused with energy," Piccolo stated bluntly. "It was meant to kill someone."  
  
General unease swept across the room, each person looking to each other as if to gauge by their reaction to their stares who was meant to receive the fatal blow. Suddenly, a shift in the air occurred, swirling around them maliciously and silencing all sounds in the room but for the collective hammering of all their hearts in a cacophonous, frantic rhythm.  
  
"DID I NOT INSTRUCT YOU TO LEAVE THIS STADIUM?!"  
  
A shiver ran down each of their spines, though some more noticeable than others. Yamcha backed away from the group slightly, his eyes alight with fear. Gohan snuggled closer to Chichi, who hugged him  
  
firmly back. Tien drew himself up into a fighting stance, standing protectively over Chaozu. Goku and Piccolo both readied themselves as well, their eyes keeping Chichi and Gohan within their range of defense.  
  
"Who are you?!" Tien shouted, summoning up his courage. "Why did you try to kill us?!"  
  
"Tien," Chaozu whispered worriedly, "don't . . ."  
  
The voice spoke with such a harsh, bitter laughter, it made the entire group jump.  
  
"THAT WAS JUST A WARNING. IF ALL MY DEMANDS ARE NOT FOLLOWED THROUGH, THEN MANY MORE DISASTERS WILL OCCUR."  
  
"What demands?" Goku shouted to the room. The rest of the group tensed up, waiting for a fight, though unawares, they lacked one. Yamcha had already made it out the back door.  
  
"What did we do?" Goku continued. "Who were you instructing to leave? Why are you doing this?"  
  
"HEED MY WARNING. THE NEXT TIME NONE OF YOU WILL BE SO FORTUNATE," and the voice disappeared into the abyss from whence it came.  
  
Silence has a strange way of returning to a room when odd or unexpected events happen.  
  
"W-what do you think we should do now?" Chaozu breathed uneasily.  
  
"I think we might want to reread that letter we got," Chichi said, still shocked.  
  
The front door into the arena opened abruptly, jolting the group's already shot nerves and causing them to jump. Bulma sauntered in, her fighting clothes on, hair newly arranged, and a look on her face that read, "I'm ready to kick butt."  
  
"What did I miss?" she said.  
  
  
  
  
  
A newspaper rustled in the dim light of the training room. Long after the stadium had closed and the very frightened and little more than confused fighters and managers had left the premises, Bulma sat at the edge of the miniature ring in her training room, waiting.  
  
And she did *not* like waiting.  
  
Most of the time, Bulma would be the one to arrive tardy to her lessons, though Grumpy had his fair share of late arrivals. This happened to be one of them. It annoyed Bulma to no end that while he had often arrived long after the lesson was scheduled to begin he still berated *her* for her tardiness. And her she was waiting again, and she knew just how their dialogue would go when he finally did arrive:  
  
Bulma: You're late.  
  
Grumpy: A true warrior has patience enough to wait for their instructor.  
  
Bulma: Oh yeah? Then why do you get so mad when *I'm* late, Mister I'm-the-greatest-warrior-in-the-universe?  
  
Grumpy: You will not speak to your teacher so! Now begin the training!  
  
Bulma: Hypocrite.  
  
Grumpy: NOW!  
  
*Hypocrite,* Bulma thought. She ruffled her newspaper again with one hand so she could read it better, the other hand stuffing a bagel into her mouth. She read with only half-interest.  
  
  
  
*"RETURN OF THE DARKSIDE?  
  
Newest information on the possible return of those responsible for the 'Kold Mafia' Murders  
  
Recent police investigations have discovered a few survivors of those who have witnessed the tragic day eight years ago when a group of unknown men led an assault in unarmed residential area named Arlia. Witnesses say these men were ten in number and were not carrying any visible weapons, though what is left of the area would disagree. The area within a ten mile radius now lies in ruin even to this day, though the smoke and screams from eight years ago has long since died. No one knows why the KM decided to attack this city, but police investigators believe there may have been some information within the city's hall of records regarding the Mafia's whereabouts and inner workings, though this widespread destruction encompasses the entire town. Most of the survivors have either moved to another city or out of the country, though some brave souls still remain in the devastated city, living off what little they have through this nightmare. Though, some do not believe that the nightmare is over yet.  
  
'I've seen one of the murderers just the other day,' Lenlia Acridid says. 'Those monsters killed my Ackla. Now I have nothing left to remember him by but this bakery and the name he gave me.'  
  
When asked about her mysterious sighting, Mrs. Acridid says:  
  
'I didn't see a lot of him, but I just knew it was one of *them.* He swooped down on my shop all bat-like and dropped some money. Then he took his purchase and flew off. I couldn't see any of him because it was very dark and he was wearing dark clothes too, but just the way he seemed to fly like some alien or demon reminded me of the way those *awful* murderers did the [day of the massacre].'  
  
Many other sightings have been noted, though they are no more enlightening than this one. Most of the activity of the Kold Mafia has ceased since the demise of the old leader Frieza, though perhaps this mysterious customer may be the leader of a neo-KM. Police are still unsure as to the validation of these sightings, but those who have claimed to witness this posthumous pariah will tell you this: the Kold Mafia's reign of terror has not yet ended.  
  
In fact, it may just be beginning."*  
  
  
  
Bulma looked at the captioned picture next to the article with a lackluster eye. Almost a dozen men of every shape and size seemed to be firing lasers out of their hands, incinerating the helpless city around them. One seemed to be very pudgy with spikes all over his body and very puffy, fat lips that smiled as he blasted a mother and child. Another looked dark and brooding, his face set in a permanent scowl and seemed to be robotically going through the motions of the annihilation, not putting any thought or emotion into it whatsoever. There were many others, all of them sending shivers down Bulma's spine just by seeing their images immortalized in black and white, though the most terrifying of all seemed to be a white creature that floated in a little hovering chair, his smile sadistic and his eyes gleaming mirthfully at the scene of devastation below him as he extended his index finger and a pinpoint of light flickered on the end of it.  
  
Bulma shivered but quickly got over the feeling as she set down the paper, finished off the last piece of her bagel, and checked her watch. *Darn it, when is he going to show up?*  
  
"Bulma?"  
  
Her head snapped up immediately and she looked with a surprised expression at the intruder of her training room. "Who . . ."  
  
The figure walked in, his orange outfit rustling and his short black hair waving a little with the movement. "It's me . . . Yamcha."  
  
"Yamcha?" she said with a note of both surprise and wonder. "But . . . but your hair . . ."  
  
Yamcha laughed and put his hand behind his head. "Yeah . . . I had to cut the long hair off after an opponent grabbed it and used it to throw me out of the ring," he reminisced. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," Bulma smiled and patted part of the elevated ring beside her, instructing him to sit down. he did as he was told and clasped his hands in his lap, looking at her in a way that said, 'I'm not really sure how to begin . . .'  
  
"So, how have you been?" Bulma asked cheerily, lightening the mood.  
  
"Pretty good I guess," he looked down at his feet, then suddenly lifted up his eyes to gaze into hers. "But not half as good as I feel now."  
  
Bulma blushed and laughed, clasping her arms around the scarred fighter in a big hug. "Oh Yamcha! I've missed you!"  
  
Yamcha stuttered and gasped within her tight embrace and barely managed out a half-strangled, "Me too."  
  
"Oh, it's been so long since I heard you say such cute things like that! I knew you'd come back to me! I just knew it!" Bulma squeezed even tighter.  
  
"Ack!!" Yamcha choked. "Uh, Bulma," he said in a hoarse, constricted voice, "I can't breathe here . . ."  
  
"Oops! Sorry," Bulma released him sheepishly. He rubbed his neck as if to check if it were still there before he smiled.  
  
"Does this mean you're happy to see me?"  
  
"Of course, you goof!" Bulma playfully slapped his shoulder. "Honestly, you can be so dense sometimes."  
  
"Hehe . . . yeah," Yamcha laughed with an embarrassed flush across his cheeks. "I can remember a couple of times where that got out of hand . . ."  
  
"Like the time you locked your keys in the car when we were out on a date and we were waiting in the parking lot for two hours while you tried to stick a coat hanger through the window to get them, but only managed to set off the car alarm?"  
  
"Yeah, that was pretty dumb of me," he laughed.  
  
"Or the time you took me to that expensive night club and you wore that hideous plaid shirt and the bouncer wouldn't let you in with me?" Bulma smirked at him.  
  
"Hey, it was laundry day!"  
  
"Or the time—"  
  
"Bulma, are all the memories you have of our relationship just me being stupid?" Yamcha chuckled in a teasing way.  
  
"No silly! I always remember the good times," Bulma looked at him, her eyes glittering. "I just consider those good times funnier."  
  
"Oh? Then I guess you would remember the time I took you to that amusement park on your birthday . . ."  
  
" . . . and we held hands in the tunnel of love . . ." Bulma snuggled in closer to him.  
  
"Or when it was raining how we would run inside my house all dripping wet . . ." he stretched his arm around her shoulder.  
  
" . . . and we would snuggle up to the fire with hot cocoa . . ."  
  
"Or those sunsets on the beach . . ."  
  
" . . . where we'd just walk on the water's edge and talk . . ." she gently leaned her head on him and he took her hand in his. They sat like that for a while, just taking in each other's presence and feeling the other's warmth, no words but the beating of their hearts, no feelings but the feeling of comfort they found within each other.  
  
"This is just so perfect, Yamcha," Bulma finally spoke, though her tone refused to break the warm bond the shared at the moment.  
  
"You know what would make it more perfect?" Yamcha smiled down at her through his closed eyes.  
  
"Hmm?" Bulma murmured, cuddling closer to him.  
  
"If we went out to dinner right now."  
  
Bulma's eyes shot open. "B-but I can't."  
  
"You can't?" Yamcha asked her, moving her so that he could look directly into her eyes. "What do you mean you can't?"  
  
"I have to have my lessons . . . my teacher will be here any minute."  
  
A cold knot of worry settled in Yamcha's stomach. "Your teacher?"  
  
Bulma suddenly covered her mouth as if she had just let something slip that should not have slipped. "Yes," she danced around an explanation, "he's very strict. He doesn't let me miss practices."  
  
Yamcha looked at her skeptically, remembering the night he had been there previously and had heard her talking to someone who had called himself the Tournament Ghost. Of course, with all that had happened during that week, and all that he could remember, it very could have been a dream. He *had* been out for five days, after all. He smiled coquettishly at her and stood both of themselves up.  
  
"I won't keep you up late then."  
  
"But—"  
  
"You get changed here," Yamcha started for the door happily. "I want to take you out on the town. Five minutes, Bulma, and I'll be back to whisk you away!" he practically skipped out.  
  
"Yamcha!" she called after him, but he was long gone. Resigned, she sat back down next to her back and put her head in her hands.  
  
"Things have changed, Yamcha . . ." she sighed as she closed her eyes.  
  
"Idiot."  
  
"Huh?" Bulma looked up sharply, recognizing that voice. "Grumpy?"  
  
"Hmph. Who does he think he is, trying to steal my protégé?" the room echoed disdainfully.  
  
"Well," Bulma said, her surprise giving way to her irritation, "maybe if you weren't so late, you might have been able to tell him that yourself."  
  
"What have I told you about patience?" the voice barked at her.  
  
"What have I told you about being a hypocrite?" she barked back.  
  
The voice slipped into a surly silence.  
  
Bulma's face wore a triumphant grin when, suddenly, the cogs in her head started to go into overdrive. She had always resented the fact that she had never spoken to her teacher face to face and now, with a little trick of persuasion, she could have exactly what she wanted . . .  
  
A chance to see his face.  
  
"Well Grumpy," she put an emphasis on the nickname, "If you really want people to listen to you, why don't you talk to them in person? I'm sure you're just *radiating* masculine intimidation . . ."  
  
"Hmph . . . you think so?" Grumpy said sarcastically.  
  
Bulma winked slyly. "I *know* so."  
  
"Really," she could almost feel the room smirk. "And how would you know about something you haven't seen?"  
  
"Well," Bulma put on the coyest smile in her repertoire, "With a voice like that and all the things you've taught me, I can't help but think you have good looks to match . . ."  
  
"Hn," the voice seemed amused but unbelieving of that excuse.  
  
"Please?" Bulma batted her eyelashes.  
  
"So, this is for *your* benefit now, and not mine?"  
  
Bulma stammered. "I-I uh . . . well . . . uh . . ."  
  
"Nevermind," the voice began exasperatedly and Bulma's shoulder slumped in defeat. She started packing up her bag.  
  
"I'll let you see me then," the room said huffily. "You'll just keep pestering me until I do anyway."  
  
Bulma blinked. "Really?" she said excitedly.  
  
"Yes. Now look in the mirror."  
  
"The mirror?" she questioned, turning her head to look at the narrow, full-length looking glass on the other side of the room. "But it's so small . . . and I don't see anythi—"  
  
Suddenly the silvery sheen of the mirror dissipated into a cloudy mist, separating around a dark figure standing within. As the clouds parted, the figures full detail became visible. Dark hair, rising up like the flames of Hades, seemed to ignite the very air around him while his clothes, a body suit that clung to him and a cape that flowed around him, darkened it like the dead of night. The most contrasting feature in this creature of darkness, however, was the white mask shielding his face from the onslaught of another's stare, while his own dark, obsidian gaze focused intensely.  
  
Something in the atmosphere seemed to call to Bulma, pulling her closer and closer to that porthole into the underworld. As though in a trance, she could not break that almost hypnotic stare of the creature before her, walking without any thoughts within her head but thoughts of dreams, and no dreams within her heart but this, her own beautiful nightmare. Coming closer, her reached out her hand to touch the glass, but found her fingertips passing through it as though it were a warm, silver liquid. Never breaking eye contact with her, the creature retreated into the darkness behind it, almost disappearing from sight.  
  
"Bulma?" Yamcha called from the door appearing with his aircar keys and a spiffy new outfit. "Bulma, you ready to go?"  
  
Bulma did not hear him. The only thing she could hear was song of urgency playing in her mind, heard only by her, driving her onward. She took a step forward, pushing herself through the liquid glass, closing her eyes and letting the underworld take her to do as it pleased.  
  
"Bulma!" Yamcha cried out, rushing toward the mirror.  
  
But Bulma had already disappeared.  
  
He tried to put his hand through the mirror, but only found it solid and cold to the touch. He pounded on the glass, but it refused to break, and sent off an electric current, blasting him away. Dazed, he shook his head to look at the mirror to find another way in, but all he saw were the misty clouds covering up the form of an entranced Bulma, retreating into the reaches of darkness known only to the phantasmal Tournament Ghost.  
  
Apparently, the date was off.  
  
  
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hah! I am still alive! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR ALL THE REVIEWS! Hmm . . . over a dozen more than expected. Nice. Apparently threats work, so that threat will stand if I don't get at least ten reviews a chapter, k? Well then . . . yeah, I took a while, but THAT WAS BECAUSE I HAD TO ACTUALLY WRITE THE FRICKIN' CHAPTER. I do *not* write fast, despite how many words a minute I can type (64), and the fact that my chapters are so long do not help (though I refuse to shorten my chapters, since I have certain key points I want to cover in each one). You must realize that often times, it can take me up to ten minutes to finish a sentence, since I'm so into syntax and detail. Have you noticed? I noticed you noticing . . .  
  
According to some friends of mine, I apparently use too much detail and people are falling asleep in the middle of chapters. If this is the case for you, please tell me, and I shall try to cut down (but I'm not sure if I can guarantee that . . . I just think in detail with big words . . . I'm kooky like that), but if you actually . . .dare I say . . . LIKE the amount of detail I use, please tell me this as well, because it makes me feel good about myself. And please, please, PLEASE don't fall asleep reading my story. It makes me very sad.  
  
If any of you have suggestions as to what you want to happen in the next chapter, or any other future chapters, feel free to leave them in your reviews. I would love to read suggestions from you guys since I *know* you all have some. I am in desperate need of fillers for some of my chapters. Why fillers? Because I need to divert your attention from certain things before they become too obvious, of course. Yes . . . I like hiding things from you. I find it enjoyable in a sadistic sort of way. Please submit your suggestions. They will be greatly appreciated.  
  
Now, I know I left this chapter at a bit of a cliffhanger, and you probably all hate me right now, but it is necessary. This is where the song ends, therefore, where the chapter ends. Yes, I am basing my chapters off of the songs. Just so that you don't hate me too much (but I don't give you too much information on the next chapter) here are the lyrics to the next song/chapter.  
  
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA:  
  
  
  
CHRISTINE (Just try and guess who's playing her role):  
  
In sleep he sang to me  
  
In dreams he came  
  
That voice which calls to me  
  
And speaks my name  
  
And do I dream again?  
  
For now I find . . .  
  
The Phantom of the Opera is there—  
  
Inside my mind . . .  
  
  
  
PHANTOM:  
  
Sing once again with me  
  
Our strange duet  
  
My power over you  
  
Grows stronger yet  
  
And though you turn from me,  
  
To glance behind . . .  
  
The Phantom of the Opera is there—  
  
Inside your mind . . .  
  
  
  
CHRISTINE:  
  
Those who have seen your face  
  
Draw back in fear . . .  
  
I am the mask you wear . . .  
  
  
  
PHANTOM:  
  
. . . it's me they hear . . .  
  
  
  
BOTH:  
  
Your/my spirit and your/my voice,  
  
In one combined:  
  
The Phantom of the Opera is there—  
  
Inside your/my mind . . .  
  
  
  
OFFSTAGE VOICES:  
  
He's there, the Phantom of the Opera . . .  
  
Beware the Phantom of the Opera . . .  
  
  
  
PHANTOM:  
  
In all your fantasies,  
  
You always knew  
  
That man and mystery . . .  
  
  
  
CHRISTINE:  
  
. . . were both in you . . .  
  
  
  
BOTH:  
  
And in this labyrinth,  
  
Where night is blind,  
  
The Phantom of the Opera is there/here—  
  
Inside your/my mind . . .  
  
  
  
PHANTOM:  
  
Sing, my Angel of Music!  
  
  
  
CHRISTINE:  
  
He's there, the Phantom of the Opera . . .  
  
PS: I didn't really feel like proofreading this chapter, so there are probably a bunch of typographical errors. Bear with me. Proofreading is the part I HATE. I don't know why, I just do. I hope my spell check on my computer got most of the mistakes so it's still legible. Yeah. Hey, anyone want to be my proofreader? I'll give you a cookie . . .  
  
PPS: Man, that has to be the longest author's note I've ever written o_O 


	6. The Phantom of the OperaTournament and A...

Disclaimer: What the hell are you looking up here for?! Go! Read! And don't forget to review!  
  
  
  
The Phantom of the Opera/Tournament and A Name  
  
  
  
In sleep he sang to me / In dreams he came  
  
That voice which calls to me / And speaks my name  
  
And do I dream again? / For now I find  
  
The Phantom of the Opera is there-  
  
Inside my mind . . .  
  
  
  
Sing once again with me / Our strange duet . . .  
  
My power over you / Grows stronger yet . . .  
  
And though you turn from me, / To glance behind,  
  
The Phantom of the Opera is there-  
  
Inside your mind . . .  
  
  
  
She felt the glass opening for her, spreading out like liquid silver as she closed her eyes and stepped forward. The song of urgency that she had heard before now sped up tenfold, though echoing in wherever she was that she had been transported to, sounding like an compelling, cavernous fugue. Finally free of her fluid passage, she opened her eyes . . .  
  
. . . only to find herself staring back.  
  
Startled, Bulma backed away from the new image, only to collide with the now solid mirror that had served as he passageway here. An electric current zapped her away, breaking her connection momentarily with that silent song that called to her and effectively throwing her off balance and to the ground. She spun sharply to view the offending object, barely taking note of the small silver sparks that rippled from the wavering glass of the strange portal or the small keypad just to the left. It was only a matter of seconds before she was called to again. She raised her head to the strange calling, her body lifting itself up of its own accord and she looking into the strange place before her.  
  
Suddenly the room seemed to extend before her, stretching out immeasurably and twisting in every way imaginable, and some ways that were not. Looking at the strange, bending, labyrinthine walls, she could see that they were not walls at all, but mirrors and the her staring back was merely a reflection of her own entranced self. This maze of mirrors, so intricately woven, made it hard to distinguish where the real ended and the surreal began, each bend making it seem as though they lead to an infinite path of mere reflections of reality. And from the depths of this dream, she heard something calling to her.  
  
She complied.  
  
Standing from floor to ceiling, the mirrors slid smoothly across the ground as though to direct her path in this strange, tangled web of looking glasses. Her very reflections seemed to whisper a strangely alluring command, so soft it was barely an order, but so insistent, it could be nothing but. As she made it to the first bend in the maze, though it was near impossible to distinguish what was an open path and a dead end in this network of illusions, she caught a glimpse of a black shadow, swooping its way through the maze with a determined sense of purpose, yet seeming to lag behind for her to follow.  
  
Once again, she complied with the silent demand.  
  
*Why do I obey?* she questioned her actions even as she was performing them, directing her thoughts to this floating phantasm ahead of her, almost willing it to hear her strange, rhythmic litany. *What is this power you have over me? Do you seize control of my free will, or do I surrender it to you? Who are you? And who am I . . .* the silent recitation tapered off, as though there were more to it, but she had not yet learned the words.  
  
Her instructor flew round bends and curves, his long, dark cape swirling behind him, his movements flowing and graceful, like an adept creature of the night. Periodically he stopped and waited for Bulma, and when she came close he continued on his winding trek, just letting her catch glimpses few and in-between of his masked features, making her wonder what he could be hiding beneath.  
  
Just when the twists and turns seemed endless, her teacher's form disappeared through a lidded opening in the ground. Bulma followed, despite the fact that she did not know how far the drop from this trapdoor was, or what was waiting at the end of it. She felt herself falling, and still unthinking, landing on her hands and knees upon hard, gritty terrain. Her teacher ghosted past a thick tapestry, the cloth obeying the underlying command within his passage and rippling open to reveal what lay behind it. Bulma looked up from her position on the ground and her eyes widened.  
  
If the labyrinth above had been a dreamlike wonder beyond normal comprehension, then this caliginous cavern was one beyond the even most quixotic person's imagination. Within the deep, dank surroundings lay a dark palace of hellish beauty, a vampiric wonder to the eyes with its heavy tapestries, sheers, and curtains entwining round the cave's walls, the impressive, full-sized tournament ring seated sedately on the rough ground with its white marble tiles glistening a tantalizing brilliance, and a great unpartitioned mirror extending across the ceiling like vast glassy lake reflecting a sea of magnified stars upon its surface. Ridges and outcroppings of the walls cast dancing shadows as the enhanced ethereal beauty of the stars supplied the only illumination to the underground sanctuary from surface light. The only illumination, that was, except for the ruddy red glow of a deep chasm that cut across the far side of the cave, its light flickering with a magmatic likeness, yet the light and warmth seeming to dissipate in the grey haze it emitted, stopping short of illuminating the other objects in the cavern. While the fact that the furnishings of the cave were quite Spartan, the eerily beautiful lighting of the mirror and the dark, swirling ornamentation of the tapestries gave the room an air of ancient royal nobility. Despite this, the only furniture that could be seen was a fair sized bed, some typical facilities for living, like a sink, a stove, a dining table, et cetera, and a long, plain desk filled with crumpled notes, broken frames of old pictures, and outdated newspapers, giving the Bulma the impression that the escritoire had been ransacked at one point in time.  
  
Bulma arose quickly, stumbling to her feet as she kept her attention on her surroundings. But though her amazement may have disrupted her grace, it had not intruded upon the strange song that seemed to guide her actions in this place. It commanded her forcefully, yet at the same time it felt as though it was hardly there at all. It coaxed her softly and sweetly, yet seemed completely irresistible, and impossible to refuse, demanding her to follow the dark, ghostly creature she had for so long thought of as her teacher into this strange, stygian empire. She saw the object of her pursuit drift on ahead of her for a bit before stopping and turning his head slightly to see if she was following. Bulma took a few steps forward before tripping over a rock on the earthen surface of the cavern, panicking when the song in her heart skipped a beat, but suddenly found herself in someone's arms. For a moment she did nothing but breathe as she gazed into the dark eyes of her saviour, the entire world stopping for just that brief second where he seemed to bore right into her soul. But the moment was broken when she made a startling realization.  
  
He was warm.  
  
He was solid.  
  
He was *there.*  
  
Bulma pushed herself away from her 'Grumpy's' grasp with a look of shock, horror, and outrage crossing her face. Her breath came quickly as she struggled to form coherent words to express her state of mind until she finally managed to gasp out:  
  
"You LIED to me!"  
  
  
  
  
  
The crisp night air circulated refreshingly in the soft breeze, making fallen leaves dance and fly in a strange aerial rhapsody. Thin, lithe limbs of trees swayed softly in the gentle gust while flirtatious flowers responded to the wind's coy kisses with demure little curtsies. Blades of grass followed suit, their fresh, pristine dewdrops gliding on invisible sails off each green wave as the wind carried them to settle down below. Unfortunately, it also happened to be carrying a bit of dust into Kami's eyes.  
  
He rubbed his wrinkled, green hand over the watering organs, shifting his weight slightly to lean more on his gnarled wooden staff. The wind ruffled his robes a bit, making him decidedly uncomfortable, even more so than simply attending this judges' convention. Ahead of him the other judges migrated through the large door of West Stadium, where the convention was to be held. Because West Stadium was owned by the city, the decorations were austere and sparse, perfect for budget cuts, and made for an easy, smooth passage inside without any stopping to sightsee, which was exactly what the others were doing.  
  
Now Kami was as good a judge as the next one, but he abhorred these conventions. They were practically pointless other than to check up on fighters' records and converse with other judges who, inevitably, had been offered numerous bribes to allow such and such fighter to be out in the third, or win the fifth round after whatever maneuver, and other such nonsense. And if there was one thing Kami hated, it was dishonesty, especially when it came to his line of work. In his eyes, a judge's position held a certain amount of respect, a respect that could be easily lost if the integrity of the position was ever compensated for something as petty as money.  
  
"Kami, sir," Popo stepped up beside the old Namekian. "Shouldn't we be heading inside? We're going to be late and it's getting quite cold."  
  
"Right," Kami said, his stony gaze toward the horizon indicating that his mind was elsewhere. "We wouldn't want to ruin the reputation any further now, would we?"  
  
Once again, Popo was left in the dark as to the meaning of his master's words but brushed it off as another part of Kami's mysterious wisdom. Stepping lightly to the open door of the stadium, Kami showed remarkable walking speed for one his age, making Popo wonder, not for the first time, why the Namek needed him at all, let alone took him everywhere. Kami was always cryptic like that. But the dark genie's thoughts were soon interrupted when a cloyingly, churrupy voice exclaimed:  
  
"Wow! You're *really* wrinkly!"  
  
"I beg your pardon?" Kami said indignantly.  
  
A big blue head emerged from the doorway, complete with a matching set of wide, blue eyes. The girl blinked up at the Namek in a strange sort of childish wonder, her intense gaze disturbingly blank. Slowly she extended her index finger, coming closer and closer to his face, just barely making contact with it, then drawing her finger back as though something had bit her. She blinked again and shifted her weight in her snazzy periwinkle suit, looking for all the world like she was trying to form a coherent thought. Suddenly her arm snapped out and she grabbed a large chunk of Kami's face with her fingers, pulling and twisting on it as though she were trying to rip it off.  
  
Kami's infinite wisdom failed him and he found himself at a loss as of what to do in this situation.  
  
"Madame, please!" Popo exclaimed, grabbing the woman's hand and yanking it off his master's person.  
  
"What was that all about?" Kami was doing a remarkable job of containing himself as he rubbed his face gingerly.  
  
"That's your real face?" the girl gave him an empty-headed look of slight comprehension. "But it's so leathery and dry! Are you sure you're not wearing some sort of mask?"  
  
"Why would he be wearing a mask that makes him look old and wrinkled?" Popo said, then slapped his hands of his mouth, backing away from his master slowly.  
  
"It's all right, Popo," Kami sighed. "I know I'm not getting any younger. Now," he focused on the blue-haired girl with a slight curiosity, "who would you be?"  
  
She gave a vacuous smile and chimed, "My name's Marron!" as if it was the most exciting name ever. "Can I get a picture of you? Please? This'll be great for my article! Joe, break out the camera and get a shot of this guy!" she moved aside to reveal a crouching photographer who had been previously engrossed at looking at her butt through her miniskirt. He snapped up at the sudden attention drawn to him.  
  
"Right!" he blushed, fumbling with his camera for a second before the telltale flash went off and he resumed his staring.  
  
"Thank you boys!" Marron pinched Kami's cheek again, this time affectionately, and patted Popo on the head. "Now I've got to go talk to some other judges over there," she pointed to her right, when it was obvious that the judges were on her left, "but I'll see you again some time, Wrinkly! By-ee!" she scurried off, her photographer trailing right behind her.  
  
"What. Was. THAT?" Popo blinked, shocked.  
  
"I believe, dear Popo," Kami said, "that *that* was a reporter."  
  
Popo stared after her. "Do you think she realizes that she's going in the wrong direction?"  
  
"She's probably about as aware of he surroundings as that photographer was," Kami smiled to his servant and stepped through the door of the convention. "Now, are we going to get this over with or not?"  
  
"Right," Popo said, following him inside.  
  
Through slowly meandering crowd, Kami nimbly managed to obtain a list of the year's current teams while weaving between the languidly moving assortment of reporters, photographers, management crew, and other judges, and effectively secluding himself in the quiet area behind the vacant judges' box. Popo lagged behind slightly, always a bit overcome by the gaudy splendour of the tournament stadiums, whether indoor or outdoor, with their vast areas, grand designs, and the sheer number of people of every shape and size that turned up in them. Finally joining up with his master, the dark genie sat down on the soft grass behind the judges' box, the night's dew not having descended upon it yet. Kami proceeded to read the list of team members while Popo settled for enjoying the slight privacy they had from the din of the throng.  
  
"So Piccolo isn't fighting in the tournaments this year, either. Hmm . . ." Kami mused as he read over the list of fighters. "Probably too busy training that boy . . . Gohan was his name?" the old Namek chucked. "He's still trying to rub it in my face that he can do something for someone other than himself. Stubborn fool. He claims that he hates me, but in reality, all of this rivalry against me just shows that he's trying to find new ways to prove that he's just as good as I am."  
  
"If I may be so bold as to ask, sir," Popo said politely, "why does Piccolo dislike you so much?"  
  
"Dislike me?" Kami laughed slightly. "Popo, Piccolo *despises* me."  
  
"But why would he?" Popo persisted.  
  
"Well," Kami closed his eyes and leaned back on the judges' box outer wall smugly, "wouldn't you be a little resentful if your better half were walking around?"  
  
"What?"  
  
Kami suddenly clicked into story mode.  
  
"Many years ago, in the village in Namek where I lived, there was a position of village elder. The elder would look after the village, solve domestic problems, and overall protect it from any sort of harm. In order to obtain this prestigious position, though, one was required to go through a series of trials. When I attempted to achieve the status of elder, I passed all the tests but one."  
  
"Which test was that?" Popo asked, enraptured.  
  
"The test of a pure heart."  
  
Popo was shocked. "How could anyone say that *you* don't have a pure heart? It's absurd! Its un-"  
  
Kami quieted him with a raise of his hand. "Ah, but Popo, you don't understand the whole story. You see, I was not always the person you see before you. I had in my heart a latent evil that only showed itself in my stubbornness and my selfishness."  
  
"You? Selfish? But-"  
  
"Yes, I was selfish and stubborn, thus disqualifying me from the position. However, I had learned a trick that guaranteed that I would not be denied for long."  
  
"What was it?" Popo asked.  
  
"The ability to purge myself of all evil."  
  
Popo said nothing in his breathless fascination.  
  
"However, when I performed the task, I had no idea that it would take the evil in me and create an entirely new being with it."  
  
"No," Popo said, disbelieving.  
  
"Yes. And that being terrorized our village for years until he met his end at the hands of Goku. However, before he died, my evil self became Piccolo's father, investing in him all of his hatred, anger, and evil. Piccolo is basically my evil side, reincarnated. Therefore, I am Piccolo's better half."+  
  
"Did you eventually become village elder?"  
  
Kami smiled sadly. "Yes, but it did not last for long."  
  
Popo looked puzzled. "Why wouldn't it la-"  
  
His question was cut short as someone rushed behind the judges' box, clutching the wall and peering out behind him in apprehension. He had a large, muscular build, dark hair puffing around his head in a rounded manner, a dark mustache, blue eyes, and he was panting as though he had been chased by the devil incarnate, or even worse: a mob of fans.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Satan," Kami greeted dryly, "so good of you to join us. But don't you think your fans will be missing you?"  
  
Satan turned his head and blinked as though he just realized he wasn't alone behind the judges' box. He furtively glanced around the small area, looking to see if anyone else would suddenly pop up before he released a frightened: "They're everywhere, I swear! They keep chasing me, asking me to sign this or say that. There's just no way to get rid of them!"  
  
Kami quirked a brow. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were afraid of your own fans, Mr. Satan."  
  
Satan blinked. Realizing his mistake, he drew himself up from his cowering, placing his fists on his hips in that quintessential pose of his and laughed, "Ha! Mr. Satan fears nothing! I'm the champion of the world and-"  
  
"Former champion," Popo corrected, crushing his speech prematurely.  
  
Satan glowered at the dark genie. "You don't have to rub it in, you know."  
  
"He has a point," Kami said brushing it off with a wave of his hand. "Besides, if you don't want your fans to join us, I suggest you stop bellowing."  
  
Satan snapped his mouth shut and stared at the floor like a little boy who has just been scolded for eating cookies before supper. Folding his arms in a surly manner, he took a seat on the ground next to the aged judge, relieved that now he had some semblance of privacy despite his newfound company's remarks.  
  
"So," Kami broke any awkward silence with his affable nature, "do you suppose there will be any good fights in this year's tournament?"  
  
"I hope so," Satan grunted. "With all the weaklings fighting it would one heck of a surprise though. I mean, they're even letting kids fight in it. Like that one boy, Hagon? No, no . . . Gohan! Gohan, that's his name. Little shrimp of a kid if you ask me. I can't believe they're letting him enter. It's ridiculous."  
  
"But isn't you daughter fighting in it? She's only six or seven, isn't she?" Kami said.  
  
"But, well . . . er . . . uh, that's beside the point," Satan stammered. "Besides, I don't think that kid will be a good enough challenge for my Videl. He's way too scrawny."  
  
"He's bigger than Videl," Popo pointed out.  
  
"It's not size or strength that matters in these competitions," Kami interjected wisely. "It is a fighter's will to succeed. Courage, honour, perseverance: these are the traits necessary in order to win."  
  
"Then how did Mr. Satan manage to pull it off?" Popo mumbled under his breath.  
  
"I heard that," Satan grumbled back.  
  
"Gentlemen, please," Kami placated them swiftly. "Now, getting back to the original subject, I think if we saw someone like oh, maybe that triclops Tien against a member of Team Ginyu, we might have a very interesting fight indeed."  
  
"Maybe, but I still think this year's teams are all a bunch of weaklings," Satan sneered derisively.  
  
"Well you can't expect every year to be like the Bardock/King match," Popo said.  
  
"Yeah, now there was a fight," Satan smirked. "What I wouldn't give to be able to go back in time and see that."  
  
"Yes," Kami smiled wistfully, "that was one of the best days of my life."  
  
"You were at the King match?" Satan said in awe.  
  
"It was quite hot that day though," Kami continued.  
  
"What was it like? I've seen some televised broadcasts, but I'm sure it's nothing like the real thing. What really happened that day?"  
  
"They fought, of course," Kami said bluntly.  
  
" . . ."  
  
"Yeah, and . . .?"  
  
"It started out looking like a draw but the King caught Bardock off-guard and won."  
  
"Come on, why won't you tell us what happened?" Satan whined.  
  
"Because, Satan, I don't believe there are any words great enough to describe that day," the wise Namek grinned.  
  
"You're just doing this to mess with me, aren't you?" Mr. Satan pouted.  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"Just out of curiosity, why did they call him the 'King'?" Satan asked.  
  
"Are you daft? Because he was unbeaten his entire career," Kami quirked his brow. "Until he went missing that is."  
  
"Oh," the former world champion blinked. "Why did he go missing?"  
  
"No one has ever really been able to answer that," Kami said sadly. "The day after the tournament he was scheduled for a press conference and he didn't show up. They proposed to meet him at his house, but when they got there it was completely decimated. No one has heard from or of him since."  
  
There was a long silence before Satan started up again.  
  
"Well, I still don't think this year's tour is going to be all that great, especially comparing it to the King match . . . and those of yours truly here," he boasted.  
  
Kami looked off over the outdoor bleachers into the night sky, his gaze unfocused.  
  
"Don't be so sure."  
  
  
  
  
  
"H-how could you . . . how could you lie to me like that?" Bulma stammered, staggering away from this newfound imposter. "Who are you? Who are you really?!"  
  
"What are you talking about?" the masked figure took a step closer.  
  
"You!" she screeched. "You! I can touch you! You're not a ghost at all! You lied!"  
  
"Woman, I may not be a spectre, but I can assure you that I am the only Tournament Ghost in existence."  
  
"That's just it! You exist! Ghosts aren't supposed to exist!" Bulma pointed her finger accusingly.  
  
The man before her growled irritably, folding his arms over his chest in an exasperated manner. "I didn't lie to you. I *am* the Tournament Ghost."  
  
"But who is that?!" Bulma shouted, still hysterically frightened. "Who are you?! I want a name!"  
  
"I don't have a name anymore," he answered bluntly and turning away from her, his voice dissipating into a soft but bitter echo. "I have no more use for it."  
  
Something in his mood made Bulma cease her histrionics and re-approach the situation. Coming slightly closer she put a hand on his shoulder only to find it rock-hard and as tight as a wound-up spring. "What *was* your name before?" she whispered to him before adding an, "unless you want me to call you 'Grumpy' forever . . ." in a playful, teasing voice.  
  
Her instructor's gaze became unfocused as he gazed at an invisible point on the other end of the cavern, though Bulma could only see the profile of his face as she peered over his shoulder. She felt his diaphragm tremble a little as he inhaled, the sound of his voice the only hint that he was disconnected from what he was saying, not putting any emotion into it whatsoever.  
  
"They called me Vegeta."  
  
Bulma backed away from him slightly, more than a little shaken at this frighteningly neutral tone of voice. It held neither sadness nor bitterness, but held such a distinct feeling of *nothing* that had she not been able to touch him, she would not have doubted that he was, in fact, a phantom.  
  
"Who's 'they'?" she questioned curiously.  
  
"Enough of these questions," he snapped at her, whirling around quickly. "We are wasting time."  
  
"Wasting time for what?" Bulma asked, confused.  
  
"Time that could be used for training of course," he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
"Training? At this hour? Do you know how late it is right now?" Bulma said incredulously, checking her watch that read around half past two in the morning.  
  
"Time makes no difference here," her instructor stated.  
  
"But the maze up there," Bulma pointed to the ceiling, indicating the labyrinth above, "it was so long . . . I'm tired. Can't I just call it a day?"  
  
"I will not tolerate any more laziness," he barked out churlishly. "You came down here for one reason and one alone: to fight. Now let us begin."  
  
He ghosted darkly over to the large tournament ring replica, his curt actions doing very little to put Bulma's questions to rest. She followed, more out of curiosity than out of actual regard to her teacher. He may have just explained to her more than he would have ever for anyone else, but that did not mean she was inclined to trust him any farther than she could throw him. And Bulma did not throw very far.  
  
Just as she made it onto the elevated ring her instructor abruptly turned around, his glare through the stark white mask centring on her and making her just a bit uncomfortable. His eyes narrowed as though he were trying to size up just which lesson she would be ready for. He paused for a moment before seeming to come upon a decision.  
  
"Tonight you will learn the art of flight."  
  
"FLIGHT?!" Bulma screeched. "Are you insane?! I can't fly!"  
  
"Why not?" he sneered. "Don't think you're up for the challenge?"  
  
"No," she sputtered slightly, "it's just that, well . . . normal people don't fly."  
  
"Oh come now," he growled irritably. "All the other fighters can fly, and you've seen them do it. What makes you think that you're any different?"  
  
"I . . . uh . . . well . . . ah," she fumbled for an answer to that, but unable to find one, sighed resignedly. "Fine, but if I end up falling on my butt it's all your fault," she mock-glared at him.  
  
"But don't think I'm going to prevent you from doing it though," he snickered.  
  
"Just shut up and teach me, jerk," Bulma hmphed.  
  
He, however, did not stop chuckling.  
  
"Come on! Are you going to teach me, or are you just going to stand there laughing all night?!" Bulma shouted to him indignantly.  
  
"Fine, fine," he consented, a twisted smile still on his face. "I know this is probably just a waste of words, but clear your mind of all thought."  
  
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?!"  
  
"Shut up and stop thinking!"  
  
Bulma frowned, but did as he said. Closing her eyes she felt her mind drifting away from all of the stress and unnecessary worries that had piled on her since the night began. Worries of reuniting with old loves, of descending into an underground kingdom with a man who had dubbed himself the Tournament Ghost, of falling on her rear if she proved that she actually could *not* fly . . . the normal fears and worries of a young lady at her age.  
  
"Now, concentrate on your own personal energy inside of you," she heard the man's from a distance in front of her, "just like we discussed before."  
  
Bulma concentrated deep within her, feeling her own individual aura just beginning to spring to life. She focused on it, feeling it grow from her centre, flow through her veins, and eventually begin to encompass her entire body, blanketing it in a warm, comforting feeling.  
  
"Take that energy and force it beneath you," her teacher instructed. "Make it push yourself off the ground."  
  
Bulma's brow began to perspire in effort as she forced her energy beneath her feet, but she did not cease her efforts. Just the slight feeling of weightlessness it gave her made her want to press on, the new belief that she actually might be able to fly giving her a newfound motivation. She clenched her teeth and kept pushing.  
  
"Come on, Woman," her teacher said derisively, "don't tell me that's as high as you can go. You're pitiful."  
  
Bulma growled as she strained to lift herself more than two inches off the elevated ring. How dare he say such things to her when she was doing so well for her first time! Bulma's eyes snapped open to give off a death glare to her cocky looking teacher, his arms crossed and that mocking smile still plastered on his face beneath the white mask that covered all but his striking dark eyes. As she kept pushing against the ground beneath her, her blue orbs shining with unbridled anger, she suddenly gasped as the exertion proved to be too much for her. She collapsed to the ground in a crumpled heap, her aura of energy long since dissipated, the last thing she remembered seeing before her trip into unconsciousness being those dark black eyes laughing at her from behind the white skeletal mask.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Krillin, are you sure no one will find us?"  
  
All was still in the halls of the Dragon Stadium after hours, despite the happenings beneath it, the details of which the reader is well aware. The question that emerged from the lips of the beautiful Android Eighteen echoed worriedly down the corridors, just a mite too loud for the ex-monk's comfort.  
  
"Shh, keep it down, Eighteen," he put a finger to his lips. "They won't find us if we're quiet."  
  
"I still don't see why we couldn't do this at your house," she folded her arms over her chest irascibly, dislodging a lock of golden hair as she did so. "Don't you think there's less of a chance of us getting caught there?" she brushed the irritating lock back behind her ear  
  
"No," Krillin whispered, still furtively glancing around him. "Our alibi is that I'm visiting sick relatives and you're training with your brother here. If they saw something going on in my house they'd be suspicious. If they hear something at this stadium, they won't think anything of it."  
  
Eighteen nodded silently at his cleverness. "Perfect," she smirked, "you picked the night when Seventeen is out of town. No one will be the wiser," her last words came out in a breathy hush as she pulled the small man into a small corner alcove of the hall, her breath tickling his ear as she spoke. Her hand caressed the smooth surface of his head, coming to rest behind his ear as she pulled him in for a soft, silent kiss. She closed her eyes, letting her long lashes brush gently against his face as he returned the kiss effort for effort. Pulling her closer to him with is hand on her lower back, the other entangled itself into her smooth blonde hair, letting the silky strands cascade through his fingers. Entwining themselves together, Eighteen started to trail her hands down lower when Krillin abruptly signaled her to stop.  
  
"Hold on," he whispered through his ragged breathing, "I hear someone coming."  
  
"But who would be he-" Eighteen's question was cut short as Krillin slapped his hand over her mouth and pulled her deeper into the darkness.  
  
True to Krillin's word, the couple soon heard the telltale sound of footsteps upon the corridor floor, slow and lethargic, and almost . . . disoriented? Not daring to even breathe, both Eighteen and Krillin's eyes widened when they saw who was approaching.  
  
Yamcha staggered down the hall, supporting himself on the opposite wall as his hand raked through his dark hair. His eyes darted wildly as he mumbled to no one in particular:  
  
"The mirror . . . right through the mirror . . . vanished . . . right through . . ."  
  
His words trailed behind him as he pressed on farther down the corridor, disappearing as strangely as he came.  
  
When Krillin finally judged it safe he removed his hand from over Eighteen's mouth, both of them still blinking after the strange sight they had seen. Eighteen was the first to speak when she turned her head to her bald companion and said, "What's up with him?"  
  
Krillin furrowed his brow in confusion, not only to what his teammate had been muttering, but also as to why Yamcha had been in the stadium in the first place. This place was getting too weird.  
  
"Well, Yamcha's always been a little off," he said, waving the matter away with a motion of his hand. "Anyway, Eighteen, why don't we go someplace else. It's getting to quiet around here."  
  
"Fine by me," she said covering her arms with her hands to ward off the creepy chill the place gave her.  
  
  
  
  
  
+ I thought this was explained on the show, but I received a question about it in a review and decided to explain it. This is why Piccolo hates Kami. ^_^  
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ohmygod, please don't kill me for not updating for so long! Eep! Okay, first of all I forced to go to the middle of nowhere for a vacation and had absolutely no access to a computer, and second, when I got back home I had the worst case of writer's block ever. I know, that's no excuse, but hey, it's all I have. I hope you guys will forgive me. I love you . . . does that help?  
  
*Sigh* well . . . I probably should warn you that the next chapter won't take quite as long as this one did, but not by much. I've got so much stuff to do! But don't worry . . . I'm almost always thinking about you and my fic . . . kind of sad, isn't it?  
  
Anywho . . .what's up with Krillin and Eighteen, huh? Getting a little close, are they? Hey, isn't that not allowed? Oooh . . .somebody's being bad . . .  
  
Poor Yamcha . . . he's so confused  
  
Hehe . . . Mr. Satan and Marron are dumbasses . . . Kami's cool though  
  
And what new surprises lie in store for our bitchy blue-haired damsel? I know . . . hehe . . . it involves a toaster oven, a newspaper, and a big hole in the ground. Still confused? Damn straight.  
  
*~*~*~ChunkyMunky241's random plugs~*~*~*  
  
'Romance Idiots With High Ki' by ZippyDragon*43 - *Very* funny Gohan/Videl fic, but let's not forget, there's always a bunch of B/V, G/CC, and Trunks and Goten mischief. They have a mafia . . . pretty cool huh? READITREADITREADITREADIT! Come on, you know you want to . . .  
  
For those that have been reading it and are wondering what the hell is up with her updating schedule, she hasn't been able to update because her computer is busted. She's getting a new one at the end of summer. Remember, she loves you all! ^_~  
  
'The Treasure of Power' by ChibiChibi - This fic is so cool! Come on . . . the Z gang as pirates . . . what could be more interesting than that?  
  
'Pseudo Ferocity' by Catgirl26 - Everyone loves Catgirl, right? She's got a new one out! Vegeta's kicked out of Capsule Corp! O_o what will happen next?  
  
Wait! There's one more!!  
  
When No One Is Watching - Another fic by me . . . er . . .and ZippyDragon*43 . . . Justice League . . . they get drunk and have strange relationship problems . . .We know that you guys probably don't like DC Superheroes that much, especially the ones shown on the dreaded CartoonNetwork, but everyone loves people getting drunk, right? Right?  
  
That's all for now! Tell me you love me!  
  
~Chunks 


	7. The Music of the Night and the Wandering...

Disclaimer: Insert witty comment about not owning Dragonball Z here.  
  
  
  
The Music of the Night and the Wandering of the Eyes  
  
  
  
Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour  
  
Grasp it, sense it; tremulous and tender  
  
Hearing is believing; music is deceiving  
  
Hard as lightning, soft as candlelight  
  
Dare you trust the Music of the Night?  
  
  
  
Close your eyes for your eyes will only tell the truth  
  
And the truth isn't what you want to see  
  
In the dark it is easy to pretend  
  
That the truth is what it ought to be  
  
  
  
Softly, deftly music shall caress you  
  
Hear it, feel it secretly possess you  
  
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind  
  
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight  
  
The darkness of the Music of the Night +  
  
  
  
  
  
Warm, brilliant sunshine beamed down upon the rounded building of Capsule Corporation, making the yellow paint positively luminescent against the lush plant-life gently swaying in the breeze. A lone figure stood on the concrete pathway leading up to the wide metal doors of the large estate, her cropped blonde hair rustling a little as she began her walk up towards the entrance.  
  
As she stepped she held her right hand in her left, warily protecting it from the airborne perils that may attack it. Though she really had nothing to fear when on the grounds of Capsule Corporation, Eighteen was not one to take malfunctioning parts lightly. Malfunctions meant imperfections, and imperfections meant that she was not up to her normal standard. All precautions must be taken in order to stop or prevent any imperfections, was her judgement. She did not like to think of anyone being better than herself and therefore always aimed for perfection in everything she did. Her body was one of those areas. Though she could not remember the times when she had been fully human, she still maintained in herself a portion that still contained much of her humanity, including the burning desire to be the best that she could be. Robots and true androids did not contain that desire. They had no will to improve.  
  
Nevertheless, she still clutched the offending piece of malfunctioning anatomy on her way up, wondering whether Bulma would be able to repair her hand, hopefully in time for any activities she might want to use it for. The piece had just gone haywire when she tried to use it, sending off a small shower of electrical sparks, much to the shock and dismay of the man on the receiving end of her touch.  
  
She blushed when she remembered just who that was and what they had been doing together when that happened.  
  
Finally reaching the front doors, Eighteen extended her finger to ring the doorbell, but was in for a nasty surprise when the hand just twitched and sparked, zapping the button and her nerves. With a muttered curse she snatched her right hand away and used her left to ring the bell, only to find that the encounter with her other hand had rendered it unusable. Growling, she knocked not all that softly on the door with her fist.  
  
Not too much longer a bubbly blonde woman greeted the android with an, "Oh my! What a pleasant surprise! You're Bulma's friend, right?"  
  
"Not really," Eighteen said dully, stepping in without waiting for the other woman to give her an invitation, "just her latest experiment."  
  
"Well, Bulma's certainly outdone herself this time," the woman chirruped. "You certainly are a pretty young thing! It's so nice to meet you! I'm Bulma's mother."  
  
"I know," Eighteen stated. "We've met before."  
  
"We have?" Mrs. Briefs quirked her head to the side in confusion. "Oh I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you, Eighteen. I bet you want to see Bulma, don't you? Well, I'll go find her for you. Don't go anywhere!" she smiled, bustling off into another room laughing to herself, "Oh I can't believe I forgot who she was! I swear I'd lose my head if it weren't bolted to my neck!"  
  
"I think those bolts are loose," Eighteen muttered to herself, shoving her hands in the pockets of her jeans.  
  
"What's loose?" a male voice sounded from the kitchen.  
  
Eighteen took a glance in the direction of the voice and, upon seeing Dr. Briefs, said crisply, "Nothing. I'm just waiting for your wife to find Bulma."  
  
"Bulma? But she's not here," the old man said, petting the ever-present kitty on his shoulder. "She hasn't been in since . . . well, I actually can't remember when the last time I saw her was," he scratched his greying head.  
  
"Really?" Eighteen raised a sculpted brow, peering through the doorway of another room where Mrs. Briefs was hard at work searching for her absent daughter.  
  
Dr. Briefs followed the android's gaze and smiled affably. "Oh don't worry about her. Actually, I'm kind of glad she has something to do now. It'll keep her out of trouble. Goodness knows what crazy ideas that woman can get into her head."  
  
*I don't even want to know,* Eighteen thought to herself before getting back to the original subject. "Do you know where Bulma has been, then?" she asked, pulling her malfunctioning hand out of her pocket and holding it in her other.  
  
"Nope," the doctor said.  
  
"And you aren't in the least bit worried?" Eighteen asked incredulously.  
  
"Bulma's a big girl now," Dr. Briefs sighed with that regretful look in his eyes that most parents have when their child has grown up. "She can take care of herself. Her head may be up in the clouds most of the time, but I'm sure she's fine."  
  
"So let me get this straight," Eighteen put her hands on her hips, "you can't remember the last time you saw your daughter, you have no idea where she might be, and you aren't worried because she's 'a big girl'?"  
  
"That sounds about right," The old man smiled before it suddenly fell. "But, I'm more worried about her health as of now."  
  
Eighteen's ears perked up. "What do you mean?"  
  
"She's always off staring into the distance, you know?" the good doctor's brow furrowed. "She hardly comes home anymore, and she's started studying again. I'm beginning to think she's getting sick."  
  
"Why would she start studying again?" Eighteen asked, confused. "I thought she was already a genius."  
  
"I thought so too, but she's been looking up the darnedest things," he furtively looked around to see if his wife was anywhere nearby. "Thinks like 'death' and 'ghost.' She's even been searching old newspapers for things like the Tournament Ghost."  
  
Eighteen was silent for a moment before she grumbled, "Well, I'll see if I can find Bulma and talk to her, but first things first. I've got a part malfunctioning here and I need her to fix it. It's not going to repair itself."  
  
"Let me have a look at it," Dr. Briefs said, brought out of his funk by the opportunity to show his genius. Sensing Eighteen's uneasiness he smiled through his bushy moustache, "You don't trust me? Come come, my girl, where do you think Bulma got her aptitude for technology? Her mother?"  
  
"Fine but if you mess up, you're a dead man."  
  
"Understandable," he said, patting his kitty. "Follow me to my workshop."  
  
Eighteen followed silently, still uneasy about having a man do the repair work, but even more uneasy about the fact the Bulma had not returned home since last night. As she passed down the hall to the doctor's laboratory her face reflected itself in a small mirror hanging on the wall and she was suddenly reminded of Yamcha's bewildering litany of:  
  
"The mirror . . . right through the mirror . . . vanished . . . right through . . ."  
  
  
  
  
  
His arms wrap around her in such a perfect feeling of comfort that she feels as though she could stay there forever. The world is empty and black around them, but within their proximity all they need is each other to make up their world. She looks up lovingly into his soft black eyes, gently brushing her hand over the scar on the lower portion of his face in a tender motion. The gap between their faces closes as he buries his head into her long, blue hair and she revels in his closeness. Nothing can be more perfect than this calm, tranquil feeling she has within her now.  
  
The air around them suddenly ripples as a foreign presence makes itself known. A silent call breaks the serene silence around the couple, weaving around them on the thin threads of the emptiness around them, pulling them, wrenching them apart. A song heard only to one of them emerges and only one obeys the seductive, silent melody.  
  
Bulma glides forward, her actions dictated only by the strange calling within her soul. More and more urgent it becomes, and farther and farther into the darkness she descends until she comes face to face with a figure that blends in perfectly in the Cimmerian surroundings. She inhales quickly at the sight of the pale, white mask disguising his true face, suddenly frightened and, at the same time, allured. His eyes gaze deeply into hers as his hand comes to gently grasp her own. Closing his hard onyx eyes, his face draws nearer to hers until his lips just tenderly caress hers and she can feel his warm breath upon her skin until . . . his entire form dissipates into the darkness surrounding.  
  
She feels a hand upon her arm and whirls around, expecting to see her phantasmal siren, only to find Yamcha's tenderly pleading face. He draws her close, stroking her silken blue hair gently, calming her with each motion. Without words he vehemently denies the existence of that dark incubus and attempts to convince her that all she needs, all she wants, is right here, with him. There is no need to chase after that illusion, that dark nightmare of a ghost, for all she could ever wish or hope for is with him: Yamcha, her first and only love. He offers tranquillity, stability, comfort, and most of all, love.  
  
She wants to believe him.  
  
She wants to want this, wants to need this, but her soul wildly beats with the rhythm of that silent song that calls to her. All she can see is that demon's eyes gazing deeply into hers, all she feels is his hand gently grasping her own, all she knows is his warm breath caressing her skin. She looks away in shame of her thoughts, unable to bear to look at the man that she is silently betraying. She blinks slowly, casting her lustful eyes anywhere but to the man she loves.  
  
Off in the darkness a figure moves without a sound, but his dark aura releases a melody that entices the soul and ensnares the senses. He disappears with a flourish of a dark cape, unwittingly snatching Bulma's attention as well. Hypnotized by the unsaid summoning, she pushes away from her love and rushes into the abyss encompassing.  
  
As she races down this void she suddenly feels the walls close in around her, directing her on a single path that twists and turns in every way imaginable and some that are not. She is instantly reminded of another maze that she has been through, though there is no one staring back at her on the faces of these walls. There is only darkness, emptiness, and such a feeling of desolation that it makes it hard to press onward. Winding her way through all the tangled web of turns she finally comes to an abrupt halt as she finds her query.  
  
He stands straight and rigid, as though agitated or alarmed by her presence. His eyes hold the look of one who has seen too much, done too much, and regrets that he does not regret. A sympathetic look in her blue eyes, Bulma wishes to show him a sign of hope, of redemption, and takes his hand in hers, putting it upon her face, cupping her cheek. His eyes look startled and dart wildly around within the dead sockets of the stark, pale mask. His hand seems to spasm at her touch, as though he is torn between succumbing to this gentle gesture or crushing what lies beneath his grasp. His breathing heavy, the inner struggle consumes him until he violently jerks his hand away from Bulma's face, backing away slowly, the silent song in the darkness now playing a crecendoing refrain of, *No pity for me, no pity for me!* Abruptly he turns from her and plunges farther into the labyrinth.  
  
Bulma reaches out after her dark shade, only to be interrupted by a shout from Yamcha, who has followed her, concerned for her safety. Not wishing for him to see her in her wanton treachery, and still entranced by this spectre, she runs deeper into the maze after that illusive phantasm as her love calls after her. Faster and faster she goes until she can just barely see him up ahead of her, fleeing, not quite afraid, but unsure, of her. Finally she is just barely within reaching distance of his trailing cape when a solid wall suddenly crashes into the ground before her, cutting her off from the object of her pursuit. She backs away, startled, before she rushes at the obstruction with tears in her eyes.  
  
Why does she cry?  
  
She pounds her fists into the barrier with that question racing across her mind, increasing its intensity as Yamcha arrives, pulling her away from the obstacle, trying to soothe her. She keeps trying to resist, rushing to the barricade with so many questions driving her mad.  
  
Why does she resist? Why does she obey? Who commands her?  
  
Why does she not trust? What is this power controlling her? Who controls her?  
  
What does she want? Is she surrendering? Who is she surrendering to?  
  
Why does she cry? Who is she crying for?  
  
Who?  
  
Only as Yamcha pulls her away from the object of her beating fists does she realize that it is not a wall, but an enormous white mask, just like that of her own dark phantom. Her phantom . . . so often she does not think of him with a name, but now . . . now she knows the truth of it. Tears in her eyes, despair in her voice, she cries out the true name:  
  
"VEGETA!"  
  
And the mask cracks down from one dark, empty eye socket, so much like the tears now streaming from Bulma's blue eyes.  
  
With a gasp Bulma snapped out of her strange dream. Groaning, she stretched out her limbs, only to be greeted with a sharp pain in her back. She winced as she rolled over, having just enough time to see that she had been sleeping on the stairs ascending to the elevated fighting ring before she crashed to the floor beside them.  
  
"Ow," she said, staggering upward. She rubbed her back gingerly, glaring down at the offending steps mumbling something along the lines of, "stupid jerk could have at least carried me to a bed or something . . ."  
  
Leaning on the elevated ring with one arm, she blinked as she tried to take in her surroundings, only to find herself surrounded in darkness. Too much like her dream prior for her tastes, she stumbled around, trying to find some sort of light switch, clinging to the walls of the cave and feeling around with her hands. Upon gliding her palm across one of the thick tapestries she remembered covered the entranceway, she pulled it open quickly, quite ready to be rid of this incorporeal darkness.  
  
She nearly blinded herself in the process.  
  
Light scattered in from the round hole in the ceiling, filtering down the vertical tunnel and somehow reflecting off the great mirror placed above the stadium ring replica, the result of such a vast amount of illumination being painfully bright. Bulma closed the tapestry as quickly as she could, plunging her back into blackness.  
  
She slowly tried to blink her eyes back into the darkness, willing the stinging therein to cease. She felt around once more, this time searching for a thinner curtain, and upon finding it, held it in place as she drew back the heavy folds of the dark tapestry. The result was much more appreciable than the previous.  
  
The dark, thin curtain that she had kept over the opening up to the labyrinth cast the light in such a way that everything remained in a sort of misty haze, like that of a dream. Something interwoven in the fabric of the curtain reflected the light in small, shimmering droplets, all ricocheting off the giant, unpartitioned mirror above the ring. Bulma looked around herself in awe of the beauty of the place. She could see that, though dark, the large tapestries draping off the walls of the cavern were not black, but a deep, royal blue lined with gold and flowing majestically down to the ground. Though unpaved or carpeted, the strange reflection of the light gave the floor an illusion polished marble tile, elegant in its crystalline splendour. The high cover of the cave seemed to take on the appearance of a vaulted ceiling, the stalactites transforming themselves into arc-boutants and the extending walls of the cave jutting in at regular intervals suddenly resembling fluted columns and stately caryatids. Bulma, still quite amazed by all the scenery, searched around to see if this place also included a decorative teacher to give her a guided tour, but, upon finding none, decided that he would not mind her having a go at spelunking.  
  
She wandered around, looking at the strange shapes of the stalagmites, their forms taking on the appearance of statues that seemed as though you could stare for days and still see a different shape every time you blinked. Most of the area, however, was clear of these strange sculptures, making for easy manoeuvrability, and the illusion of a great foyer within a palace. As she wandered farther away from the fighting ring, she noticed a light mist swirling around her feet, tendrils clinging tenaciously as she stepped. Pressing forward, she cut through the haze curiously until she ran out of standing ground. Looking down, she could see a near endless expanse of space beneath, extending until it could no longer be seen in the thick haze. Feeling slightly acrophobic and more than a little dizzy from the height, Bulma backed away, eager to explore more of this strange place.  
  
Turning around, her gaze fell upon the pristine form of the full-size replica of the tournament ring, the mirror encompassing the ceiling making the white tiles positively luminescent. Walking up the polished steps onto the elevated ring, she stared at the vast mirror above her, marvelling at the splendrous droplets of light cascading down from it. Thinking of her previous tampering with the curtains and the fact that this had to be sunlight from somewhere outside of the building, her mind boggled at the sheer geometry it would have taken to erect that maze of mirrors in the right places above in order for the sun and stars to reflect in just the right route to ricochet against the right spot and illuminate the entire cavern, not to mention the added challenge of enabling the labyrinth to move its walls without obstructing the light's path. Bulma whistled softly, impressed. She spun slowly around, absorbing in the place from her new, elevated location, when something that did not quite belong caught her eye. Stopping abruptly, she peered at it with a slightly confused tilt of her head.  
  
In a slight grotto of the cave, near what might be considered a small kitchen, an untidy desk seemed to call out to her, its ransacked appearance tickling her curiosity. Hopping off the ring like an overly excited, inquisitive child, Bulma tread lightly to the desk stopping just in front of the rumpled newspapers, pictures, and other assorted items. Picking up one mangled piece of press, she managed to unfold its remains, only to find herself staring at the article she had read the previous night about a neo- Kold Mafia or whatever. The only difference, beside the rumpled factor, was that the disturbing picture she had seen was now nearly non-existent. Something slightly resembling a beast's claws had torn across the image, leaving only a few shreds behind.  
  
Bulma set the paper down, her confusion growing even more and her curiosity far from sated. Walking down the desk to what seemed to be a chair covered in paper debris, she wondered how the rest of the place could be so tidy and yet this section be impossible to see the surface of anything. Tired of looking at almost identical torn papers, she began to search for other articles, her eyes skimming over this vast sea and her hand trailing inquisitively behind her. *Hmm . . . papers . . . papers . . . picture frame . . . papers . . . wait, picture frame?*  
  
She stopped and ran her fingers delicately over the small, facedown surface. Picking it up gently, she blew some dust off the simple frame, turning it over a bit surprised at the broken glass that fell from its face. Squinting slightly, she recognized the browned image as a newspaper cut-out, an old one at that. A tall, regal looking man proudly held up a large, decorated belt above his head in one hand, his other supporting a small boy no more than five on his shoulder. His face sported a fierce grin while the boy held up a cheeky victory sign. Both looked like mirror images of the other. Below the picture was the faded caption of:  
  
*(above) This year's new champion celebrates his fifth consecutive victory with his son (right)*  
  
Bulma frowned a little in concentration. Staring at that little boy, he almost seemed familiar . . . as though she had seen him before . . .  
  
"Woman, kindly keep your prying hands off my possessions."  
  
Bulma snapped the picture down with a start. She looked up quickly at the voice, blushing slightly at her error. "Sorry about that."  
  
He did not respond, but headed straight for the small kitchen area, nearly ripping open a cupboard fixed into the cave wall, and pulling out two slices of bread. Sticking them into the toaster, he waited a few seconds before pounding on the small countertop where the toaster lay. The toast popped up immediately and he swiped his hand over the appliance, whipping out a small plate and setting the toast on it in one brisk motion. He quickly stepped over to the small table nearby and roughly pulled out a chair, seating himself and beginning to devour his food at the same instant.  
  
Bulma blinked. "Okay . . . I guess that's an 'apology accepted' then."  
  
He swallowed the last of the second piece of toast and got up to get himself another.  
  
After witnessing the strange display again, she asked him as he began to sit down, "Aren't you going to make some for me?"  
  
He did not stop as he sat down again.  
  
She walked over to the other side of the table, directly in his view and said in an impatiently louder voice, "Aren't you going to make some for me?"  
  
He swallowed a mouthful of his food. "You've got hands."  
  
Bulma 'hmphed' derisively and proceeded in making her own toast, not without a goodly amount of glaring on her part. After about five minutes of waiting for the toast to come up, not to mention the distinct smell of something burning, she turned to him quickly, a slight look of panic hidden well with her calm words, "Uh, a little help here?"  
  
He, who had been lounging back in his chair with a smug little look on his face at her ineptitude, simply said, "Punch it."  
  
"Punch it?" Bulma quirked a brow. "How will that help anything?"  
  
A thin tendril of smoke emanated from the toaster.  
  
He spoke slowly and deliberately as though instructing a child. "Pound your fist on the countertop and it will come up. Really, it's not that hard."  
  
She did as she was told, a slightly disgusted, 'well-I-could-have-figured- that-out' look on her face. Sure enough, the toast eagerly leapt up and, too proud to admit she was wrong by making another, less burnt batch, Bulma took her charcoal and began to eat with only a slight grimace on her face. He simply chuckled softly, shaking his head at her antics.  
  
Bulma swallowed. "Shut up. It's not funny."  
  
"On the contrary," he grinned maliciously. "I find your incompetence *very* funny."  
  
"*My* incompetence? You're the one who can't even fix a toaster."  
  
"Why fix something that trivial?"  
  
"Hmph," Bulma folded her arms. "What, do you not have enough time to fix your kitchen appliances?"  
  
He leaned back a little farther in his chair. "Why yes. I have a very pressing schedule."  
  
She looked at him sceptically. "Yet you can find time to build a labyrinth, a mirror that serves as a portal, and an underground empire."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And you can't fix it in your free time like . . . oh, say . . . now for some reason?" she put her hands on her hips.  
  
"Of course not," he scoffed, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It could take hours just to get the correct parts to fix it, not to mention dismantling it to find the source of the problem in the first place, and then the actual task of repair. I hardly want to spend that kind of time on a mere inconvenience."  
  
"I could assess the damage in thirty seconds," Bulma stated smugly.  
  
"Oh you could, could you?" he asked, unconvinced. "Let's see it then."  
  
Bulma blinked at him once before getting up to dismantle the appliance. Whipping out her nail file from her pocket, she made quick work of one of the outer panels, revealing the inner workings. Peering inside with a practiced technological eye, she poked a slender finger inside, flicked a small spring, and gave a little calculating nod, all the while thinking in her head, *how did I get here?*  
  
"There's a spring loose," she said, self-satisfied.  
  
He frowned a little at having to eat his words and only said back, "That was thirty-seven seconds."  
  
Bulma rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said, sitting back down at the table.  
  
"Well, now that you've torn my toaster apart," he cleared his throat, "I guess we can get on with the training."  
  
"Already?" Bulma groaned, her charcoal toast not having settled yet.  
  
"Of course. Did you think you could get away with wasting more time?"  
  
"Well, no, but . . ." Bulma stuttered, groping for a good reason, "but I haven't had a chance to change yet. I'm wearing the same clothes I was yesterday."  
  
He grunted and reached into the folds of his cape, tossing her a capsule, which she caught, surprised. "It's your bag you left in the training room," he stated at her look of puzzlement. "Hurry up," he indicated that she go behind a large tapestry.  
  
"You've got to be kidding," she mumbled, appalled that she'd have to change with such a small divider protecting her modesty . . . and she wasn't even permitted a shower. Her hair felt limp, her eyes felt baggy, and she was quite sure that she had a crick in her spine because of her sleep on the immovable steps of the ring. She gave him a dirty look as she pulled the tapestry aside for her to enter, plopping her bag on the ground and forcefully unzipping it. After she had near completely undressed, she was in the process of pulling on a fresh pair of pants, hopping on one foot to get them up the rest of the way, when she fell over, hitting her head on the wall behind her. She was quite surprised when it yielded for her.  
  
Leaning her head farther back, she looked on with upside-down eyes at a room she had not seen in her little exploration bout prior. A dim, dank darkness like that of a prison, or tomb, seemed to settle in it, forcing her eyes in place with a strange, morbid curiosity. Turning over, she stood, hesitant to step into the strange room, as though restrained by some intangible force. Though dark, she could make out the faint impression of shapes in the shadows: a medium sized dresser, a nightstand, and what must have been a bed (though it was peculiarly casket-like in the caliginous chamber), all shrouded in black, funeral veil-like tapestries, their ghosted images doing little to ease her frame of mind. What disturbed her most about the room, however, despite the dreary lighting and bizarre feel it had to it, was the odd way the silence seemed to sing. But it was no ordinary song.  
  
It sang Death.  
  
The air around her suddenly grew very cold, and Bulma had no qualms about shutting the strange little opening wall. Changed and ready, she put all thoughts of the mysteriously puzzling room behind her, walking out to meet her increasingly impatient teacher. He gave her a glower.  
  
"What?" she asked defensively. "It's not like I took *that* long."  
  
"Whatever," he grunted irritably. Turning he peered through his mask over his shoulder at her. "We're wasting time. Hurry up and get on the ring again."  
  
Bulma groaned. "Not again. I told you, I just can't fly. I *passed out* the last time for crying out loud! I just ca-"  
  
"Shut up. I know perfectly well that you can't," he snapped. "That was made painfully obvious last night." A rebuke and a reprimand, though the latter seemed more directed toward himself. "However, I don't believe that you can be a *complete* incompetent."  
  
"Then what *are* you going to teach me? How to throw a punch?" she put her hands on her hips. "I already know how to do all of that. What else can there possibly be to-?"  
  
"Don't ever assume that you know everything!" he barked at her. "There is always, ALWAYS something that has been overlooked . . . some move, some technique, some consequence that you've forgotten. Always assume that you've made a mistake."  
  
"Don't go giving lectures on overconfidence to me!" Bulma snapped back. "You have no right, you hypocrite!"  
  
The eyes behind the mask smouldered. "Perhaps, but that does not change the fact that you shouldn't do it."  
  
"Fine. But what are you going to teach me since I can't fly?"  
  
"There are still many things for you to learn," he said, stepping onto the ring and tearing off his black cloak in one abrupt yet fluid manner. It fluttered to the floor beside the arena.  
  
She climbed briskly up the stairs, still looking at him with a slightly haughty disbelief. "So, teach," she commanded, crossing her arms.  
  
He unfurled his. "Hit me."  
  
"What?" she blinked.  
  
"You heard me. Hit me. When you can land a direct hit, you're ready to be trained fully."  
  
Her jaw dropped down in shock and a bit of outrage. "You mean you haven't been teaching me seriously?"  
  
"No."  
  
"But . . . but if you've been taking me lightly this whole time, how the heck am I supposed to be able to hit you? I hadn't even *seen* you until yesterday."  
  
His brow furrowed. "You trust your eyes too much." Tilting his head back he pondered a while until, "Fine. I'll make it a little easier for you. I won't use my hands to block anything, kick, punch, whatever. How does that sound?" he asked as he placed his hands behind his back.  
  
"Does a kick count as landing a direct hit?" she asked, a little more satisfied with the prerequisites.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"All right," she said, then leapt into an immediate attack.  
  
She struck out at his face, only to have him nonchalantly tilt it away. Irritated, she lashed out with her foot only to have him flip over her gracefully, landing on all fours like some dark animal, swiping a booted foot beneath her and knocking her to the ground. He shoot back up again and she rolled out of the way just in time to dodge another kick headed her direction.  
  
"You didn't say anything about fighting back!" she ducked away just in time.  
  
"Expect the unexpected. There's always something you've left overlooked." He stood up straight again, clasping his hands behind his back once more.  
  
Blowing some wayward strands of hair out of her eyes, Bulma glowered at him, setting herself in a fighting stance before she launched herself at him in a flurry of kicks and punches, all of which were either dodged or blocked by he legs. He led her on a frustrating chase around the arena, her energy fading with every attack and his amusement growing. Finally she gave up, collapsing on her knees to the floor, her breathing heavy and sweat rolling into her eyes uncomfortably.  
  
He landed casually in front of her his once again folding in front of him. "What's the matter, Woman? Aren't you having fun?"  
  
She gave a feminine and unfrightening snarl, springing forward with anger afresh from his taunting. Her blue eyes tried to bore holes in the dark voids within that skeletal mask, her fists and feet flying at him from every direction possible. Her fury increased as his sardonic grin widened. She no longer struck with closed fists, but opened her hands into sharp, feline claws. One rogue hand lashed out at his mask, ready to rip it away, but was stopped immediately by a quick, gloved grip and an even quicker fist towards her face. She gasped and cringed, closing her eyes as the blow came closer to contact . . . and never reached its destination. She opened her eyes to see a fist hovering just inches from her face. She finally released the breath she had not known she had been holding.  
  
"That blow could have taken your head off," he stated coldly, looking hard into her eyes.  
  
She swallowed and nodded slowly, just now feeling the tightness around her hand cutting off the circulation. His gaze trailed slowly from her eyes to his hand, where he released it. His fist retracted too, folding itself with the other arm across his chest as he walked to the side of the ring to get his cloak.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, holding her hand gingerly.  
  
The skull of a face looked back at her coldly. "You should be," he put on his cape.  
  
"We're done?" she asked.  
  
He grunted.  
  
"But you haven't taught me anything! We can't be finished now! We-"  
  
"You're too weak and too slow," he interjected. "There's no possible way you can win with tactics like that. I expect you to think about that for the rest of the day."  
  
"What? What kind of teaching is that?!" she said indignantly.  
  
"My kind," he gave a twisted smile.  
  
"Ugh!" she stamped her foot angrily. "What am I supposed to think about? How badly I fight? Don't you have anything else you can tell me?!"  
  
"You want it out straight?" he questioned, turning to her.  
  
"Well, yeah," she blinked  
  
He took a deep breath. "Like I said, there's no possible way you can win-"  
  
"But-"  
  
"Shut up!" he snapped. "There's no possible way you can win with tactics like that. You are incapable of making a good offensive fighter; therefore you must rely on defence. Because you are pitifully weak, you can't rely on any strength or speed of your own. You must use your opponent's abilities against him, guiding his strengths toward his weaknesses. You must also study his techniques and deduce the vulnerabilities therein. Think on that for a while."  
  
She watched as he turned away, his cape lifting up a little behind him as he walked. "Where are you going?" she asked.  
  
"Out," he answered in an irritated manner, continuing on without looking at her.  
  
"Wait!" she called after him.  
  
He stopped and looked at her through his white mask.  
  
"Um," she said nervously, having forgotten what she was going to say, "thanks telling me all of that. I'll think about it for the rest of the day and later I'll use it to try and hit you again."  
  
He gave a conceited little smile. "Like you ever could. Do you realize how slowly I had to move to fight at your level?"  
  
Her jaw dropped. "You were holding back the whole time?"  
  
"Woman, for all the times you claim to be a genius, your stupidity never ceases to astound me." He looked away. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."  
  
"I guess not," she smirked. "I look forward to our next match, Vegeta."  
  
He started harshly, slowly sliding his eyes to hers and drilling into her with a penetrating stare. An absolute silence permeated the air as she blinked back, surprised. His gaze held no irritation, no rebuke, no anger. They were empty.  
  
"W-what's wrong?" Bulma asked, unnerved.  
  
Vegeta closed his eyes slowly and opened them back up again. "Nothing," he said, turning away to leave. "Nothing . . ."  
  
  
  
Puar was worried. Her tail twitched nervously and her paw shook as she raised the coffee mug to her mouth. The second night had fallen since Yamcha had left, and she did not like the look of it. The stars were smothered by a thick layer of clouds that refused to move and refused to rain, though seemed to tell that something momentous in the near future was to come. A light mist covered the neighbourhood, though it could only be seen in the yellow, isolated light from the street lamps. It was hushed and it was uncomfortable.  
  
Puar's eyes began to droop despite the caffeine she was pumping into her system. Staying up for two nights straight was no easy task for a little cat. The room around her began to blur as her consciousness wove in and out of existence. She yawned and her head fell against the table with a soft thud just as the front door to the apartment opened.  
  
Yamcha stepped in, his eyes unfocused and his movements slow. He shut the door and leaned against it, sighing as he tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. Closing his soft, dark eyes he pushed aside his exhaustion and managed to clamber his way over to the kitchen table where his furry blue friend snored gently. He gave a little tired smile at her. She was always there for him.  
  
Leaning back in his chair he massaged his feet. It had been a long, long walk. He had sorted out, or at least attempted to sort out some of the recent events that had occurred:  
  
One. Bulma had joined the team, and had done very well. Much better than had been expected of her.  
  
Two. Bulma had informed him that she was taking lessons from a mysterious teacher, and by the looks of it, he was very, very good.  
  
Three. She had disappeared into the mirror.  
  
Four. There was a ghost in the stadium and it had tried to kill him.  
  
Five. He was going completely insane over all of this.  
  
*Why can't everything be like it was before?* he thought. *It feels like everything's collapsing all around me and I can't do anything to stop it. Bulma said she still loves me, well she didn't exactly say it but it was implied . . . she seems so far away now,* he put his face in his hands, looking across the table at Puar's even breathing.  
  
*And what is it about this teacher of hers? Why does it feel like she's hiding something from me? Is he more than just her teacher? What isn't she telling me about him?* he ran his hands through his hair in a frustrated manner, clasping the short, black clumps in clenched fists. A dark thought descended upon him: a thought of the love of his life turning in gently to kiss a large, masculine hand cupping her face . . . a thought of her hair trickling through the fingers of an unseen man, pulling her closer to himself with each passing second . . . a thought of Bulma slowly and lovingly bringing her soft lips upon those of another, her deep blue eyes closing and letting the long lashes brush against the side of the man's face . . .  
  
*Okay, so I'm jealous,* he let his fist fall against the table with a dull thud. He let out a soft, bitter laugh. *I'm jealous of someone I don't even know. I don't even have any proof that he's in a relationship with her. Why am I thinking like this? Why do I think I can't trust her? Why don't I trust her?*  
  
It took him a while to realize that Puar was looking at him with her sleepy- cat eyes. "Yamcha," she said groggily, "I was worried (yawn) sick about you. I-" her eyelids began to fall again.  
  
"It's okay, Puar. I'm fine. I just needed some time to think," he said. *Yeah, two whole days. No wonder she was worried.* He smiled and patter her head. "Go back to sleep."  
  
She purred against his hand and cuddled into her front paws. Yamcha got up from the table and headed towards his room, stopping to look back at his sleeping friend. Smiling slightly to himself he thought better of it and scooped the little cat in his arms, carrying her with him to his warm bed.  
  
*Sometimes I think I'm too nice for my own good,* he thought as he set her on one of his pillows, and he did not know quite why he thought that.  
  
  
  
  
  
+ Taken from the highlights version of "The Phantom of the Opera", not the original soundtrack. While the background music of the original is nicer and fits in better with the mood, the lyrics of the highlights version fit in better with my version story. However, both are sung beautifully by Michael Crawford. That guy's the man.  
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Whoa . . . that was a long break between writings. I hope my ideas don't hop around too much . . . there are a couple places where the gaps between paragraphs extended over months of time, so please forgive me if I seem choppy. Marching season is almost over, and after that I'll have much more time to do this. THANK YOU TO THOSE WHO SUPPORTED ME WITH THEIR REVIEWS. Don't think you guys went unnoticed. This probably would have taken a lot longer if so many people hadn't reviewed.  
  
I hope that my next update won't take so long, but I can't make any guarantees. Even when band is over (perish the thought) my schedule is still pretty tight. Along with all the emotional trauma I've been having over my one-sided relationships, infatuations, and obsessions (namely who all my love poems are about), I still have a hefty load of schoolwork to do. That and I have a limited access to the internet and can't quite go online as often as I'd like to. I hate being isolated from all your great stories T_T  
  
On the brighter side of things, I just had a birthday on the second of November. My friends are the best. I got an Incubus t-shirt and a cool sticker that says "Don't interrupt me when I'm talking to myself" from ZippyDragon*43, another shirt from my friend Wendy that says "often speaks out of turn", a book on learning saxophone (for jazz band and jazz band only . . . I'll be a die-hard clarinet/bassoon until the day I die) and some reeds from Stephanie, and a pair of Mr. Potato Head pyjama pants and a Vegeta action figure (he lights up and makes sounds! It's so funny! It sooo ugly it makes me laugh) from my friend Theresa. She laughed too. That thing is hysterical. Not that any of you care.  
  
Also, I saw the musical "Phantom of the Opera" back up there in August. It was great, but I was a bit disappointed in the performance of Raoul. He seemed to showboat his vibrato too much. However, that did not change the fact that I got goose bumps when the chandelier went up and the overture played. The Phantom was played beautifully and Christine's voice was lovely. Carlotta, Piangi, and the Managers were a riot as always. Meg was crystal clear and Mme. Giry was a delightful old hag.  
  
Anyway, that's all for now. I hope to write for you soon!  
  
~Chunks  
  
PS: Check out my favourite authors and stories lists. I think you'll find some great works there. Hell, you might even enjoy reading some of them. 


	8. I Remember and I Wonder

Disclaimer: Don't own DBZ or Phantom of the Opera, but if I did, I think most people would shy away from seeing either of them. No one really needs to hear Vegeta or Piccolo sing, and I don't think it would be for the best if Raoul and Monsieur Firmin shot energy blasts.  
  
I Remember and Wonder . . .  
  
  
  
Who was that shape in the shadows?  
  
Whose is the face in the mask?  
  
  
  
The air around him moved suddenly, unnaturally. He inhaled his breath quickly, his pupils shrinking with awareness. Deepening into his fighting stance, his foot scraped along the ground as his brows drew together in concentration. His heart-beat pounded in his brain.  
  
Blinking slowly, he tried to focus his eyes on the foreign presence in the room with him. His muscles clenched in anticipation and a small sliver of excitement trailed up his spine. Frightened and eager, his black eyes focused on one area of the room. He struck.  
  
"Not good enough," a deep voice growled as he was kicked in the back of the head and thrown to the ground.  
  
Still on the floor, Gohan had little time to dodge the next attack from his mentor. Moving as quickly as he could, he rolled away from the strong fist that crushed into the floor where he had been lying seconds before. Attempting to flip back onto his feet, his stomach met with a firm knee and his limp body was sent sliding to the other side of the ring. His hair fell in jagged locks just over the edge; his closed eyes would have stared at the floor outside the ring.  
  
Gohan's arm twitched as Piccolo stepped over to survey the damage. Standing austerely above him, the Namek's eyes followed up a ripped blue fighting uniform, tattered white collar, numerous bruises that looked like they would hurt terribly tomorrow morning, and a mass of black hair askew.  
  
"Come on, Gohan. I know you're better than this," he growled, turning the boy over with his foot.  
  
Gohan's eyes snapped open at the contact and he leapt up, barrelling over his tutor in the process. Piccolo staggered backwards, holding his nose, purple fluid trickling down from it. He growled irritably, showing the slightest hint of his overly pointed canines and took a large, green and pink fisted swipe at his student. Gohan dodged, but not well enough, and what was a fist suddenly became a vice-like grip on his right leg.  
  
Piccolo was about to teach his pupil a lesson in awareness by smashing his skull into the tile ring (as a friend, of course) when-  
  
"Gohan!"  
  
Piccolo stopped his lesson mid-swing and released Gohan's foot, making him fly halfway across the ring before he could gain control and stop his voyage, but still managing to land unceremoniously on his rump with a bounce.  
  
"Gohan? Oh, there you are," Chichi smiled.  
  
"Yeah, Mom," Gohan Painfully stood up, rubbing his rear gingerly and trying to cover the worst of his bruises. "What's up?"  
  
"What's up? You mean other than the fact that I've had no idea where you'd been for the past three hours?" she gave him a reprimanding glare.  
  
"Huh?" Gohan blinked, confused. "I don't understand. I told dad where I went . . . didn't he tell you?"  
  
"No," Chichi glared acidly at the doorway.  
  
Goku stepped out looking at the ground, embarrassed. "Well, I told you he'd gone out, I just forgot where."  
  
Chichi groaned and and massaged her temple. "Gohan, how many times do I have to tell you? Don't be goi-"  
  
"-ing out on my own without telling you directly where I'm going. I know," Gohan said quoted obediently.  
  
"Good. Now that we're clear, let's see you remember that next time."  
  
Gohan frowned in a surly manner and looked down at his shoes.  
  
Chichi softened a bit and walked over to Gohan, kneeling down next to him and holding his shoulder comfortingly. "Gohan," she started, and received a reluctant glance from her son, "I'm not telling you these things to be mean to you." Gohan looked down again. "I'm saying them because I don't want you hurt. You can't be going off alone all the time."  
  
"But I wasn't alone," Gohan piped up quickly. "Mr. Piccolo was with me."  
  
"I know he was, Gohan, and he'll be dealt with later," she shot the Namek a sour glare, "but with all the weird things that have been happening, I don't want you straying too far from your father. Okay?"  
  
"You just don't like Mr. Piccolo."  
  
"That may be true, but that doesn't change the fact that you're safer with your dad."  
  
"You don't think he's just as strong as Dad?" Gohan questioned.  
  
Goku and Piccolo exchanged glances.  
  
"No," Chichi said. "In fact, your dad beat Piccolo in a tournament a couple years back."  
  
"That doesn't mean he's stronger than me now," Piccolo muttered.  
  
"Sure it does," Goku winked at him.  
  
Piccolo fixed his stare on him in a challenging manner. "I think you've gotten rusty."  
  
"Do you?" he smiled brightly.  
  
"I'll bet that's why you don't fight anymore," the Namekian pushed, goading him into a fight.  
  
Goku's smile instantly faded. "Piccolo, don't."  
  
"I never did get a fair rematch for that last fight . . ."  
  
"Piccolo, I-"  
  
"I'll take both you old guys down!" a child's voice echoed in the arena.  
  
The original four in the room turned their heads to the doorway, surprised to find an elderly man in a tropical print shirt, shorts, sandals, and a pair of gleaming red-trimmed sunglasses carrying a gnarled old staff standing beside a little girl, her long black hair in low pigtails that framed her cherubic face, highlighting her deep, blue eyes that looked very determined at the moment.  
  
"Master Roshi!" Goku grinned excitedly, completely forgetting about the impending fight and the pint-sized challenger. "What brings you here?"  
  
"Just thought I'd check up on things . . . and introduce you to one of my new members. But I think she's already done that for herself, haven't you Videl?"  
  
Videl pointedly ignored him and curled her tiny hands into fists, focusing on the other two men in the room.  
  
Roshi laughed. "Feisty little thing, aren't you?" he patted her head.  
  
"Don't get any ideas," Videl ducked out from under the third pat. "Daddy only let me on your team because you said you didn't think bad thoughts about little girls."  
  
Roshi coughed to stifle a blush while Goku laughed.  
  
"Old man," Chichi muttered to herself, "filthy as dirt."  
  
"So, are you going to fight me or what?" Videl crossed her arms impudently.  
  
Piccolo sneered. "Sorry, girl, but I don't fight children."  
  
She pouted. "But you fought that kid," she pointed at Gohan, who had been inconspicuously examining his right arm for broken bones.  
  
"Who? Me?" Gohan jerked his head up at the sudden attention.  
  
"That's no ordinary kid," he smirked.  
  
Videl squinted her eyes at Gohan, evaluating him in such a discriminatingly close manner that the young boy could not hold back the slight blush that spread over his face. She hmphed haughtily.  
  
"He doesn't look so special."  
  
"Hey!" Chichi and Gohan responded with simultaneous indignity.  
  
"What?" Videl smiled devilishly. "Don't like your ego being stabbed at?" Gohan frowned a little as she sauntered up with a self-confident bounce in her step. "Yeah, I bet you don't like that. So why don't you try and defend it, huh?" she poked him in the chest.  
  
By now she had placed herself uncomfortably (for Gohan) close and was staring him down with the most threatening look her soft, girlish features could muster. Chichi looked upon the scene with slightly amused interest; was it so long ago she was challenging her husband in a similar way before they were married?  
  
"Why don't you want to fight?" Videl poked him harder. "What's the matter? You chicken?"  
  
"No," Gohan stood himself up straighter, pushing her backwards slightly in the process. The finger stopped poking him, but the deep, blue eyes still glared. "You know," Gohan said, frowning, "you'd be kind of cute if you weren't so bossy and mean."  
  
"ALL RIGHT, LET'S TAKE THIS OUTSIDE!" Videl screamed, dragging a shocked Gohan by the wrist out the door of the ring.  
  
"What did I say?" Gohan blinked as the little girl tugged on his arm with more strength than a little tomboy should possess. "If it's because I said you were mean, I didn't me-"  
  
"NOBODY CALLS ME CUTE!!"  
  
Chichi outright laughed as the door to the arena slammed shut, the two children gone. Calming her amusement, she threw a still wistfully smiling look at Piccolo who took the hint and followed the children out.  
  
"Anyway, Master Roshi," Goku said with a bit of a laugh at his family's behaviour, "what kind of things did you come to check up on?"  
  
"Yeah," Chichi narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "You're not just trying to find some information to get one up on us for the opening fight, are you?"  
  
"Of course he isn't Chichi!" Goku swooped his arm around his old teacher's shoulders in a masculine hug. "We talked about his before, remember?"  
  
Roshi's brows furrowed behind his sunglasses despite Goku's happy countenance. "Actually, I didn't drop by just to pay you a visit."  
  
Chichi threw Goku an I-told-you-so glare.  
  
"I'm worried about you two owning this stadium," he backed away from Goku, resting his fists behind his back sagely.  
  
"Not you too!" Goku said, dismayed. "There's no such thing as the Tournament Ghost! Why doesn't anyone believe me?"  
  
"Because there's too much evidence against that theory," Roshi's sunglasses flashed.  
  
"Excuse me?" Chichi defended her husband. "I beg to differ. There may be some strange happenings around here, but there's no proof that this is any type of ghost, let alone a neighbourhood legend."  
  
"If you already know about all the terrible things that happen in this place, why are you still holding a tournament here?" Roshi demanded in angry concern.  
  
"I hardly think that the things that happen around here can be dubbed as 'terrible', Roshi." Chichi folded her arms with decision. "The worst that's happened was a light falling. I hardly consider that a supernatural act."  
  
"What about the disappearance of your newest fighter?"  
  
"She's probably off on business somewhere," Chichi reasoned. "She *is* the daughter of Capsule Corp.'s found-wait a minute! How did you know about that?"  
  
Roshi's calm exterior melted under Chichi's suspicious glower. "Well, I-"  
  
"You've been spying on my team, haven't you?!" she screamed, approaching the old master with a deadly angry aura. "I knew it! I knew it! When I get my hands on you, I swear I'll . . ."  
  
Chichi's hands were extended, exposing her dangerously long nails on hands dangerously close to Roshi's neck when a livid, high-pitched battle cry pierced through the walls.  
  
"HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYAAAAAAA!!!"  
  
A muffled 'oomph' could be heard from the other side of the wall.  
  
"Well, I better be going now," Roshi said hastily. "That girl Videl there is a loose cannon some times," Roshi laughed. Chichi remained adamantly angry. He quickly scurried out the door and out of the line of fire without any further explanations.  
  
"Chichi," Goku called to his still irate wife with a soft voice, "you know that that lighting incident wasn't an accident. Why *do* you insist on staying here?" He put a calming hand on her small shoulder.  
  
Her eyes softened a bit as she turned to him. "Because you know as well as I do that Gohan's studying suffers when he's on the road all the time going to different stadiums. If we can be stationary for at least a little while at a time, maybe he can catch up. With the tournaments this stadium can host, we may be able to stay in this one town double or triple the amount we've been able to stay in one before."  
  
"But you know as well as I do that we agreed he'd be a fighter," Goku said.  
  
"You may have agreed to that," Chichi turned away from him slightly, "but I never did. You can't really make a career out of fighting like this. One day something will happen, something will go wrong, and he won't be able to keep doing it. If he doesn't study right now, what will happen when that day comes? It may come sooner for Gohan than it did for you, Goku," she looked up at him again, eyes pained, "and when it does, I want him to have something to fall back on, some kind of safety so he doesn't end up with nothing. And don't tell me that never happens to fighters, because I've seen some of it before myself . . ." she caressed his cheek gently, ". . . and I never want to have to see it again."  
  
  
  
She clamped a screw tightly between her teeth as her hands deftly rearranged wires, springs, and cogs. Squinting at the small nuts and bolts surrounding, she carefully inserted said screw into its rightful place, exchanging it for a spring. She wrenched and twisted, torqued and tweaked, but in a manner so adept and precise it was almost an art . . . she could lose herself in it.  
  
Making the final adjustment, she slapped the side of the toaster back on with a little smirk of triumph. Now not only did it make toast, but it percolated coffee, opened cans, served as a small microwave, and could be used as a telephone. *I truly am a genius,* Bulma thought smugly, polishing an imaginary spot on the side. *Now if only that big lunkhead of a teacher were here to-aaaah!*  
  
A blazing blue ball of energy whizzed past where her head had been not two seconds ago and crashed downward into the base of one of the cavern walls, making the rest of them shudder. Loose rocks from the ceiling broke free and fell scattered to the ground. Bulma shook some from her hair, clutching the toaster protectively against her chest as she turned around to the source of what would have been a very uncomfortable situation for her.  
  
A black blur continued to scatter blue orbs of energy around the room, each of them precisely dropping to the ground, obviously attempting to prevent a cave-in. Vegeta gracefully performed kicks and punches, beautiful in their lethality, his body soaring near the great, glassy mirror above one moment, gliding across the white ring the next. He fought with his own shadow, quite an elusive quarry if his near-desperate actions indicated correctly. If Bulma were able to see him moving at that speed she would have seen his scowl deepen with each attack, as though that shadow were taunting him with every action. As though he had just realized that his shadow could not be caught, he stopped abruptly in the air, closing his eyes and slowly descending to the arena floor. He dropped to his knees, sweat dripping down his nose and over those set brows, the mask ineffectually attempting to smother it.  
  
He kneeled like that for a while, panting. His hands gripped onto nothing as they sat on the ring, though they looked strained like he was trying. The sweat fell in an uneven rhythm, their steady stream interrupted by the ragged breathing. His eyes clamped shut as the perspiration rolled over his eyebrows and passed over them, dripping out beneath the white mask. The breathing began to slow, as if gradually going back to normal, but his eyes snapped open abruptly. He stood quickly, urgency screaming in his pulsating veins. Clenching his fists and tightening every muscle in his body, he threw his head back and screamed.  
  
Bulma had to blink away when a blinding blue and white aura flashed up around him, gyrating in rough, jagged peaks, the light reflecting off the mirror above him and illuminating the entire room in irregular flashes, near blinding one moment, the next as dark as though it had truly had blinded her. The light came on in waves that seemed to be striving to reach the shore, each brighter than the last. She turned back to it in awe and curiosity.  
  
"Strange, unnaturally flashing lights," she said under her breath, remembering.  
  
He screamed louder now, a deafening roar that resonated off the cavern walls, rattling the stalactites and the very ground itself. The rocks that had been dislodged earlier from the previous energy attacks now rose up from the ground, trembling in their levitation. The cry pushed forth from the depths of his lungs, forcing his eyes to squeeze shut. Bulma could almost imagine the sound of his vocal cords snapping within the straining call. He was trying to call something, trying to achieve something, and using all he had to do so.  
  
"Screams within the walls," she muttered, "like a soul being torn from the body of a living person . . ."  
  
Suddenly the screaming stopped, the light dissipated, and his head hung low. His eyes remained closed, but his fists unclenched and fell to his sides. He inhaled deeply, calming his rampant breathing and pulse, and snapped his eyes up to meet hers. She was caught staring like a deer in headlights.  
  
"What was all that about?" she asked lightly, trying to draw the attention off her.  
  
He looked down into his open hands. He still had not achieved it. "A legacy," he answered.  
  
Bulma sighed. She knew she would not be getting any more of an answer than that. "I fixed your toaster," she brightened.  
  
"So?"  
  
"So, now it works properly," she quipped. "*And* it does coffee, cans, microwave dinners, and phone calls.  
  
"What use have I for a telephone?" he scowled at her.  
  
"Well fine then, you ungrateful-"  
  
"Have you been thinking at all about your training while you were completing that contraption?" he interrupted, briskly brushing her disapproval aside.  
  
"Well, I . . ." she fumbled  
  
". . . haven't," he completed contemptuously. "Honestly, how do you expect to become a great fighter if you can't even concentrate on a simple task for a day?"  
  
"Now see-"  
  
"Don't bother answering that," he turned around and picked up his cloak. "I don't want your excuses."  
  
"Fine then," she frowned. "If you're going to be acting like that, I might as well not train with you at all today." She stuck her nose in the air and turned, fully prepared to occupy her time elsewhere. Peeking a little bit behind her as she set the toaster down on the small countertop in the kitchen area she saw that he was not paying her the least bit of attention as he fastened his cape on himself. She pretended to occupy herself with her nails as she watched him sit down in a meditative position, obviously not interested in anything she had to say unless, of course, it would be a grovelling apology to him. Bulma hmphed at the thought, insulted.  
  
*But what am I supposed to do while I'm here?* she lamented. *I mean, I've already distracted myself with fixing a stupid toaster! How much lower can I go? I'm meant to work on rocket ships and atom-splitters, not household appliances!* She folded her arms in a manner not so different from a spoiled child. Her pink nails tapped against her forearm, itching for something to do while her eyes searched for possibilities. A rogue glance at the dark alcove in the back of the cave handed her one on a silver platter.  
  
*What *are* those papers there, anyway?* she knitted her brow in concentration, the littered debris atop the desk calling out to her to examine. *And what's with that picture?* Her footsteps resonated in the cavern as she strode over with determination.  
  
Faster than she could ever hope to imagine he appeared in front of her, the stark mask not two inches from her face. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, the demand menacingly soft.  
  
"I told you," she said imperiously, "if you're going to be acting like such a jerk, you might as well not train me."  
  
"So you think that just because you're on a reprieve you can go and do whatever you wish without my permission?"  
  
"Well, you haven't offered to show me around the place yet," she put her hands on her hips and leaned in an authoritative manner. "You've been a terrible host."  
  
"I am not and never will be a mere host for a spoiled brat," he clipped the last word insultingly. "I am your teacher and you will treat me and my possessions with respect."  
  
"You mind *telling* me which ones I should stay away from to keep on your good side?" she said sarcastically.  
  
He paused, almost unsure of himself for a moment, then grunted, "Fine. Anything if it will keep you out of my hair."  
  
Bulma looked up at the wild, spiky black mass above his mask. "Don't worry. I want to keep me out of there too."  
  
He quirked a brow, a look in his eyes that seemed between laughing and growling. Rolling his eyes to brush it off, he smartly turned and began walking in the opposite direction towards the tournament ring replica. Bulma started to follow him, but turned her head back to the desk once more, the scattered papers, pictures, and memories therein threatening, yet enthralling.  
  
Vegeta stopped. "That area is off-limits."  
  
"But wh-"  
  
He glared at her, black eyes burning beneath the mask.  
  
"Got it," she gulped. "Because you said so. Right."  
  
Appeased, he turned again stepped onto the white marble ring, Bulma tailing behind him. He stopped in the middle, giving her a silent indication to look up at the great unpartitioned mirror above them. Bulma lost herself staring into that vast inverted picture of the room she was in, a small languid haze of light reflected off the surface from some outside source.  
  
"So what's with this thing?" she asked when she had retrieved her voice.  
  
"It's a mirror," he looked at her as though she were stupid.  
  
She stamped her foot indignantly. "I *know* that. I was wondering *why* it's here."  
  
"For illumination," he stated simply. "The sunlight filters through the stadium's skylight reflecting on a series of mirrors that run through the labyrinth above and ricochets off this one."  
  
"Well, why don't you just get some normal lights in here?"  
  
"It's simpler to just use natural lighting. The wires and electric bills for the stadium would be too cumbersome," he said. "I really don't have time to be discovered down here."  
  
"What about candles?"  
  
"The smoke in the place would gag you."  
  
"Oh," she said, clasping her hands, unsure of what to do. "What's next on the agenda?"  
  
"What do you take me for, a tour guide?" he snorted.  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Well, it's not like you're done yet."  
  
He grumbled a little, but turned around to show her the next item despite. Bulma followed, once again weaving past the assorted stalagmite sculptures that rose from the floor until they reached one of the high walls of the cavern. The rock face appeared no different from any of the others, possessing the same dark, rough look, the same uneven outcroppings and indentations, the same extension upward to the high vaulting of the ceiling.  
  
"Here," he said.  
  
"What?" she frowned. "It's just a wall."  
  
The corner of his mouth pulled up. "So it seems."  
  
His hand grasped an ordinary outcropping, fingers firmly gripping, and twisted it clockwise. Quickly, a huge slab of the wall began to swing open into the wall, unveiling a dark passageway, narrow stairs leading upward.  
  
"Expect the unexpected, right?" she smirked.  
  
He nodded, turning the outcropping back in its position, the newfound door slamming shut with a dull 'boom' that shook the other walls.  
  
"How many other tricks do you have up your sleeve?"  
  
"Why, Woman, I'm appalled you'd think so lowly of me. These aren't tricks," he smiled deviously, "they're merely a practical use of one's spare time."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure," she quipped sarcastically, but smiled. Even during those verbal training sessions she had been having not so long ago, never had she spoken with her teacher so openly and without either side blowing up in the other's face. If she did not know better, she would say he was actually tolerating her behaviour. And, for him, that was a good thing. "What else is there? Are we done?"  
  
"Far from it," he said, grabbing her wrist. "Come."  
  
Still stepping lightly, Bulma could not help but giggle a little as he almost eagerly pulled her to his next sight. *He's almost like a child showing off all these innovations like new toys,* she thought. *And he gets mad at me for 'wasting' my time making a toaster. It doesn't make any sense how he can be so angry at everyone and yet still be like this on those rare off-moments. Perhaps the mask on his face isn't the only one he wears . . .*  
  
"Watch," he commanded as he ran up to the wall. They were fairly close to the white tournament ring, in one of the larger alcoves, though not quite as large as the one in which the desk was located. Bulma shivered slightly, despite her more hopeful thoughts preceding. Just thinking about that desk, with the news article that had been slashed down the picture gave her chills.  
  
Vegeta cleared his throat and Bulma snapped back to reality. "Watch," he repeated tersely.  
  
"Watching," she said attentively.  
  
He pressed down on part of the wall next to him, the piece he pushed giving way slightly and moving into the face of the wall. A 'whoosh' turned her attention to the way she had originally come into the underground empire, the hole in the ceiling that she had entered by now closing swiftly. It shut with a dull echo, dropping a bit of dust onto the ladder beneath it, climbing up the wall.  
  
"And above that," Vegeta said cockily, "I have that mirror you entered through. The keypad next to it is programmed to keep someone in or out, depending on my whim."  
  
"You've really thought of everything, haven't you?" Bulma stroked his ego, hoping to keep his amiability up. "You've managed to cover any ground that could lead anyone to you."  
  
"Ah, but I haven't shown you the greatest part," he grinned wolfishly.  
  
"What did you make this time?" she racked her brain for anything else he could possibly need.  
  
"I didn't make this one," he said, "but I have put it to good use." He walked briskly to the far end of the cave, in the direction of that constant ruddy glow deep within the ground. "Come. Over here," he said.  
  
Bulma complied, trailing the dark figure to that abyssal chasm on the farthest, darkest side of the cavern, the vaporous tendrils that floated just above the ground clinging more tenaciously the closer she came. She had never noticed how clear the smell of the air was near that crevasse.  
  
  
  
"I'LL GET YOU!!"  
  
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Gohan ducked away from Videl's fist for the umpteenth time. "Please, can we talk about this?!"  
  
"Shut up and fight!" She aimed a kick at his stomach and he jumped just in time, her foot just brushing his purple fighting outfit. "Coward!" she screamed as she charged at him.  
  
Gohan scurried away, accidentally backing himself against the wall of the hallway they were in. He barely had time to blink before a knee rushed toward his head, striking the wall where he would have been not one second ago. Cringing as he looked up from the ball he was curled into, the glower on Videl's face was the only thing that kept him from laughing as she hopped up and down on one foot, holding the injured knee. He crawled backwards on his hands when she finally released her injured limb and stalked toward him. Her dark blue eyes smouldered as she clenched her fists, her teeth grinding together.  
  
"Come on, let's not fight over this . . ." Gohan pleaded. He really did not want to hurt this girl; his father had always told him to be especially kind to girls, just as his grandfather had instructed him. Besides, he did not particularly dislike this girl . . . like he had said, were she not so angry, he would call her cute. Of course, that was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Gohan put his arms in front of his face in a defensive block as Videl drew a fist back, ready to strike.  
  
"Crud," Gohan muttered as he awaited the next, and possibly strongest, attack.  
  
It never came.  
  
"Let me go, you old green jerk!"  
  
"Piccolo," Gohan sighed in relief. Standing up, he smiled to his mentor, who merely grunted in response as he held Videl up by the back of her shirt. Her tiny black-gloved fists and thick pigtails flailed about as she tried to break free. She stopped when she heard a raucous cackling to her right.  
  
"Shut up, Roshi!" she yelled. "It isn't funny!"  
  
Roshi wiped a tear from his eye, but could not stop laughing. "You got yourself into this mess; it's my privilege to laugh."  
  
Videl growled a little bit, crecendoing into, "PUT ME DOWN!"  
  
Piccolo glowered down at her. "Not until you calm do-OUCH!" he exclaimed as he tried desperately to shake off Videl, who was now clinging to his other hand by her teeth. "GET OFF ME!" he ripped her off and she fell to the ground gracelessly.  
  
Roshi's laughter heightened.  
  
"THAT'S THE LAST STRAW!" Piccolo shouted, about to grab Videl again, fully prepared to punish her for her actions. His hand was blocked by a gnarled wooden staff.  
  
Master Roshi frowned behind his sunglasses. "Now, now, Piccolo. No need to let things get out of hand."  
  
"But she-"  
  
"Enough. Videl, why don't you leave Piccolo alone. He's kind of grumpy today."  
  
"No," Gohan said, "he's like that all the time."  
  
"Watch it, kid," the Namek growled.  
  
"Uh, Gohan," Roshi said, still holding himself between Videl and Piccolo, Videl and Gohan, and just Videl and anyone in general, "why don't you go back and talk with your parents. It looks like Videl doesn't want to wait until the grand opening here to fight you."  
  
Gohan took one glance at Videl, who, at present, was making another lunge for Piccolo's hand (who, by now, was slowly backing away from the girl) and nodded. Walking at a speed just below sprinting, Gohan exited, the door shutting quickly behind him.  
  
Piccolo, now a safe distance away from (literally) Satan's child, questioned Roshi with a slight tilt of his brow ridge, "So it's confirmed that Kame Team will be the other team fighting at the opening?"  
  
"You bet," smiled a two-toothed grin, Videl finally having calmed herself down behind him.  
  
"Even when Chichi thinks you're spying on her?"  
  
"Oh she'll get over that," Master Roshi waved the problem away with his hand. "Besides, there isn't any other team of the same calibre that she can choose besides Team Ginyu, and I doubt she'll do that."  
  
"Hmm," Piccolo muttered in mild disbelief, "I think I'd better confirm that."  
  
"You do that," Master Roshi waved the Namek out the door.  
  
"Come on," Videl pouted at the old man once Piccolo was gone, "you didn't even let me get him back for talking to me like that!"  
  
"Videl," he said wisely, "I don't think that picking fights with your superiors will get you many friends."  
  
"Superiors?!" she huffed. "They're hardly my superiors. I could beat the whole lot of them ten seconds flat. Besides, I'm not on the team to make friends. I'm on the team to fight."  
  
"You may be right about why you joined the team," Roshi commented, "but I can guarantee you that you're not stronger than any of the people you've challenged today."  
  
Her determined scowl dropped. "What?"  
  
Roshi smiled smugly and continued. "I bet *you* wouldn't last ten seconds against *them.* Honestly, Videl, you can't even sense their energy, let alone be up to the same level as them."  
  
"Sense energy?" Videl could look absolutely adorable when she was not going to rip off your head.  
  
Roshi's sunglasses flashed. "Yes. That's when you fan your own personal energy to be able to pick up or sense the energy of others. This can often help in predicting your opponent's next move, or just help you figure out where they are at any given time."  
  
Her small brows creased sharply. "Show me how to do it."  
  
He smiled one of his rare, non-lecherous smiles as he began explaining.  
  
  
  
His gloved hands tremble as the warm blood steams upon them. It lies all around him, the blue black colour gleaming in the moonlight and on the once pristine surfaces of his gloves. The steam rises to his nose, where he can breathe in the sharp, metallic stench as well as see it. He is intoxicated. He must have more.  
  
Suddenly the fact that the blood is on his gloves is not enough. Tearing them off, he delves his hands into the fresh corpse before him, the dark blood contrasting sharply with the pale skin. Grasping the warm, plasmatic fluid in his hands, between his fingers, he pulls them out, revelling in the feeling of blood up to his elbows. As some drips down into the bleeding ocean he sits in, the warmth of it is sickeningly comforting.  
  
He has done it. He has achieved what all those labouring years of torture were for . . . his goal, his dream . . .  
  
It bathes his hands.  
  
His clean, gloved fist sliced through the air, the sound similar to that of a whistling blade. The heavy heaving of his lungs, the rapid pounding of his heart, the haunted eyes behind his mask all belied the effect of the memory previous. He punched again with such a precise, sudden stop of his arm that tiny beads of sweat that had been clinging to him flew forward due to the inertia.  
  
But the blood would not come off.  
  
He growled, his brows furrowing under the mask, his leg performing a series of complicated kicks. One after the other the kicks continued until the muscles in his one leg burned and he was forced to switch to the other. His target remained elusive.  
  
Fed up with simple leg manoeuvres, he took flight, his dark, yet uncloaked, form vanishing in and out of normal sight as his invisible foe led the attack. He dodged with abrupt, whip-like twists and aerial flips, like some sort of great, dark hawk. Turning quickly, he fired a single blue blast of energy at the great mirror above him, its clear surface deflecting the ball and returning it to him. He dodged it, the sound of its passing a sudden buzzing by his ear. As the orb came closer to the ground where it surely would combust on impact, Vegeta swiftly placed himself beneath it and kicked it back toward the mirror. It came back again and he continued this self-target practise until one rogue block hit the energy just a few degrees off and accidentally forced it into his left shoulder, where it exploded. Vegeta collapsed to the tile floor of the fighting ring replica, a hand over his bleeding wound. The warm fluid trickled down his arm, past his elbow, where it flowed down to his white-gloved fingertips. He removed his other hand and stared at the dark crimson surfaces of his hands, an unreadable expression on his face. The blood fell in uneven drips to the ground and his masked eyes followed each droplet. The pain came rushing back to him, but he would not give in to it.  
  
He surrendered his pain to his anger, his power.  
  
With one mighty bellow, he released the pain in a colossal wave of energy.  
  
Bulma stopped brushing her hair for a second as the noise interrupted her off-key humming to herself. She looked over at her teacher, rolling her eyes a little. Every day he did this, and every day she could still not figure out exactly what he was trying to do. Not that she had been here long, mind you, maybe two or three days; it was hard to tell. But however long she had been here and however long she had seen him train and still not achieve whatever it was that he was trying to achieve, she could not help but watch him with an awed sense of curiosity. She put her brush away in her duffle bag, eyes still focused on the swiftly moving form of her teacher.  
  
Five energy orbs were hounding him now.  
  
She could barely see him as he dashed about, miraculously avoiding every blast and still managing to be able to keep them chasing after him. She caught only brief glimpses of her tutor as he stopped to send another blast back up to the mirror (which seemed to be practically indestructible), the light from his energy casting his shadow in dancing multiforms. Her blue eyes widened at the sight of such technique, now knowing first hand how hard each of those manoeuvres would be to do. Rubbing her arm in a bashfully uncomfortable manner, she was forced to evaluate her own incompetence as a fighter. *How can I even hope to have a chance at winning any tournaments when there are fighters so much better than me fighting? I-*  
  
She stopped her train of thought abruptly. *But wait . . . wasn't the reason for me wanting to fight so I could be with Yamcha? Since when has winning ever become a priority for me? When did this stop being about him and about . . .*  
  
A bright flash of light caught her attention as Vegeta caused two of the energy blasts to collide with one another. She heard him growl irritably, but not taking any time away from the rest of his training, still keeping the energy from colliding with the floor. She had no idea when the beginning of the move had started, but suddenly she was aware that somehow he had gotten the energy to come at him all at once. She would have called out to him in warning, but by the time she had seen it coming, it had already come.  
  
All three of the remaining blasts exploded on impact with his body, blinding the cavern with a bright blue-white light. Bulma unshielded her eyes and was surprised to see him still standing. He was scarred and bloody, but still standing.  
  
*I don't know what the heck he's doing,* Bulma thought, *but I sure hope he doesn't expect me to try anything like that. Of course, that would be assuming that he remembers I'm still here . . .*  
  
Panting with the newly inflicted pain, Vegeta finally decided it was best to take a breather and stepped off the tile ring. He leaned against one of the walls of the cave, closing his eyes beneath the mask and tilting his head back toward the ceiling. His panting began to slow in to small, yet still rapid, puffs.  
  
Bulma grumbled inwardly. *Typical that he would lecture me about wasting my time when he just beats himself silly and takes a whole hour out of my time to recuperate.* She folded her arms and glared at him, secretly hoping that she could bore a hole right through that mask. Right through . . .  
  
*What *is* he hiding behind that mask anyway?* her brows furrowed. *I mean, he never seems to take it off. You'd think after keeping me down here for so long he'd have the courtesy to at least show me his face! What's the worst that could happen if he did?* She blinked curiously before smirking. *What's the worst that could happen if *I* did?*  
  
She glanced around her surroundings, formulating a plan. He stood near where he had shown her the device to open the hole over the ladder to exit, on the convex side of the alcove where the desk was. Her eyes moved from path to path, deciding which would giver her the greatest element of surprise before her eyes snapped with decision.  
  
Silently she crept along the side of the wall, trailing past the kitchen and dining area toward the alcove. Upon reaching it, she treaded softly, clinging tightly to the side of the cavern. She could no longer see him. The broken shards of glass from the picture frames reflected her skulking form until she passed, now reaching near the end of where the wall extended and stopping. She knew he was on the other side. All it would take was one quick move. Her decision wavered and her thoughts jumped around as quickly as the beating of her heart. What-ifs piled up in her mind as her hands gripped the rock wall behind her. She swallowed dryly, but set her jaw in tight resolution. She could hear his breathing . . . in, out . . . slowly, and she pinpointed his location by it. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she gripped the wall one more time as if for comfort and threw herself to the other side of the outcropping.  
  
Too quickly and too suddenly for him to react, and in a movement she was utterly unable to control now, her fingers swiftly tore away the mask.  
  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ha! I bet with the musical excerpt at the top that you thought you'd find out what he looks like in this chapter . . . I'm too evil. Oh well . . . anyway, I hope I can get the next chapter out to you guys sooner; I know I left it at quite a cliff-hanger here. Perhaps more reviews will prompt me to write faster . . . not that I'm super greedy for reviews; it's just that since I've passed the one hundred marker for this story, I'd like to have relatively the same amount of reviews as pages I've written. Seems fair, doesn't it? Equal pay for equal work.  
  
Sorry again if this chapter seems choppy, but I've been relatively busy. I need to up my grade in AP US History and probably try a little harder in Spanish, not to mention the fact that Honour Band this year nearly killed me with the amount of school I missed. Not that I minded, but I had a heck of a lot of make-up work that I just didn't get around to doing. I did get a pretty black concert dress out of it, and that makes everything better, right? Well, enough of my boring life. Go and review and wait for the next chapter. Then we'll get to see Vegeta's face!  
  
~Chunks  
  
PS: Go read ZippyDragon*43's 'Romance Idiots with High Ki.' I command thee. 


	9. Stranger Than You Dreamt It and More Fri...

Disclaimer: Fan fiction - n. A type of written work about, containing characters from, or taking place in the setting of another piece of work created by a recognized professional, written by a fanatical person with strong emotions for the creation. (That's dictionary for: 'I don't own DBZ or Phantom of the Opera').  
  
-  
  
Author's note: Yeah, it's been a while, but at least it's here! Anyway, forgive me if the spacing is messed up . . . ff.net doesn't seem to want me to have separate scenes. Oh yeah, and I know that Puar is a guy in the manga, but in the dubbed version, Puar is a girl. I like it this way, so deal.  
  
-  
  
Stranger Than You Dreamt It and More Frightening Still  
  
-  
  
-  
  
Fear can turn to love,  
  
You'll learn to see, to find  
  
The man behind  
  
The monster, this . . .  
  
Repulsive carcass  
  
Who seems a beast  
  
But secretly dreams of beauty  
  
Secretly . . .  
  
Secretly . . .  
  
-  
  
-  
  
There was a pause, and as Bulma held the mask in her hand, her heart in her throat, she barely had any more courage left to look. But look she did.  
  
For that brief pause where time seemed to stand still, she was able to take in all of his features. His dark, uncovered eyes burned beneath black brows in shock and anger; his sharp, pointed nose held itself up high between; his frowning lips were open in surprise, though they still managed to scowl. Had Bulma the time, she would have been stunned to find that instead of a monster beneath the mask, she had found a handsome man. But she had neither the time nor the mindset when she realized that the face she saw was familiar.  
  
'Dark and brooding . . . his face set in a permanent scowl . . .'  
  
Her mind raced as she tried to place that image. Who was that? Where had she seen that? She looked for answers in those hard, dark eyes, and saw nothing returned to her but years of death and pain.  
  
'Robotically going through the motions of annihilation . . .'  
  
She remembered now. That photograph, those men from the Kold Mafia, the torn version of the newspaper she had found in the cavern . . . but by now her time was up and he had recovered from the initial surprise. She jumped backwards as he stalked forward, his mouth moving from the shape of outraged shock to simple, elemental rage; though his eyes closed off any actual feeling she might see.  
  
'. . . not putting any thought or emotion into it whatsoever.'  
  
And the only coherent thought of her own that she could create was: Murderer.  
  
"I-I'm sorry," she stuttered dumbly, the mask trembling in her hand as she continued to back away. He refused to speak, still proceeding steadily toward her, each footfall sounding to her like the drums of a funeral dirge. His energy began to flair about him, though not his normal blue, but a deep, blood red.  
  
*Murderer . . .*  
  
She stopped abruptly when she found her back against the ladder that led out, the door atop still shut from the day before. She gasped suddenly when a gloved hand lashed out and gripped her own that clutched the mask. His eyes burned black fire before her so intensely that it took her a moment to register the fact that her hand was blazing with pain.  
  
"I'm sorry," she could only manage a pained whisper. "I only . . . I just wanted . . ."  
  
"You wanted to see me, did you?" he finally spoke in a grinding, deadly low voice.  
  
Bulma swallowed nervously.  
  
He growled vociferously. "Look!" he shouted, his other hand indicating his face. "You want to see! See!" His hand on hers tightened. "Feast you eyes, glut your soul on my cursed face!" his voice rumbled the entire cavern.  
  
"You were not content to hear me, eh?" his voice dropped down again into that deadly calm whisper that could be more frightening than his shouts. "You wanted to know what I looked like! Oh, you women are so inquisitive!" his volume grew again. "Well, are you satisfied?!"  
  
Tears began to form in Bulma's eyes as the pain in her hand and the terrifying burning of his eyes continued. She turned her head away quickly, mercifully for her, so as not to see, not to feel his demonic fury.  
  
"I frighten you, do I?!" his voice hissed and he drew her face to him, brutally twisting his painfully strong fingers into her hair. The bleak black flames of his eyes forced her own to him and he went on.  
  
"Perhaps you think that I have another mask? And that this . . . this . . . my head is a mask? Well," he roared, his snarling grimace morphing into a feral smile, "tear it off as you did the other! Come! Come on now! I insist! Your hands! Give me your hands!"  
  
And he seized her free hand dug it into his face. He dragged her long fingernails into his flesh, tearing and scraping the skin until a thin stream of blood began to flow from the clawed scratches. He continued to tear his flesh with her nails, the freshly dead top layer of tissue gathering up in her nails along with the blood. She cried out for him to stop, but he continued to smile his mad, maddening smile.  
  
"So you know who I am now, don't you?" he bared his teeth at her.  
  
She nodded, her tears finally falling. *Murderer.*  
  
"Who am I, then?"  
  
She shook her head softly, refusing to answer him.  
  
"Who am I!!" he thundered. His grip tightened around the hand the grasped the mask, but let the other go, and it fell limply to her side. "You tell me who I am, if you know so well!!"  
  
She sobbed and choked out, "Murderer."  
  
"You fear it, don't you, little Woman?" he began applying the pressure to her hand for emphasis on his words, and was rewarded a fresh sob for each. "You know and fear the fact that I have killed and know that I can kill again! Then know," he shouted while his throat throbbed and panted like a furnace, "know that I am built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse that instructs you and teaches you and commands your very soul!!"  
  
Her weeping made her too weak to even stand and her weight dropped; the only thing supporting her now was his vice-like grip on her mask-clutching hand. His last word resonated in the cavern as he pulled her up by her arm to eyelevel with him. "Woman . . ." his voice grated, causing her to look up at him.  
  
'All she sees is that demon's eyes gazing deeply into hers . . .'  
  
". . . once a person has seen me, their very life belongs to me," he nearly crushed her hand on the last syllable.  
  
'. . . all she feels is his hand grasping her own . . .'  
  
"I alone decide whether they shall live or die." His voice grew quiet as he allowed Bulma to comprehend her predicament. "And you," his face came closer to hers, "I've decided, will have one more minute to live." She could feel the air rush out at that last sentence.  
  
'. . . all she knows is his warm breath caressing her skin.'  
  
*Wrong!* her mind screamed. *Wrong! It's all wrong!*  
  
"I believe I'm being quite generous, though," his lips were tauntingly close to her face, "since you are the only person I have allowed time to escape." With that he released her hand and slammed his own into the wall, pressing the outcropping that opened the door atop the ladder.  
  
The mask fell to the ground.  
  
Bulma's eyes refused to move from confusion and fear, her hand throbbing but her mind focused only on his eyes as he pulled his face back to glare at her coldly. Bulma could not move.  
  
"Fifty-nine."  
  
She blinked, her breath coming back to her suddenly. She tried to back up more, stretching her hand out behind her, but it met with only the cold metal of the ladder.  
  
"Fifty-eight," he growled, his frown creasing deeper. "Woman, this is your last chance. Get. Out. Now."  
  
That was all she needed.  
  
In a rush, she scrambled up the ladder, leaving the last lingering echoes of "fifty-seven" behind her as she rose up into the labyrinth of mirrors. Her heart leapt up in her throat again when she realized she had not the faintest idea of how to escape.  
  
*Fifty-six,* her mind chastised with its internal timer. *Fifty-five . . . quick, just choose a direction, Bulma . . . fifty-four . . .* Taking a deep breath she plunged into the reflective darkness of the maze, no longer caring where she went exactly, as long as she could just get away. She ran as fast as she could, though the only thing she received for her efforts were end after end after dead end. Panic swelled up inside her.  
  
*Thirty-eight . . . thirty-seven . . . thirty-six . . .*  
  
There was no use. Defeated, Bulma collapsed to the ground, wiping away a stray tear and unwittingly flicking it onto the pristine surface of a mirror. *He's going to kill me, and I can't do anything . . . there's no way I can find the way out of this place in under thirty-"  
  
There was a faint 'beep' that penetrated her thoughts of surrender.  
  
Raising her head up swiftly, Bulma tried to locate the sound. *That beeping . . . it could only come from something electronic . . . but what . . . the portal!* Bulma rushed to her feet, desperately rushing toward where she believed the sound was originating from. Turning corners quickly and rushing down long passageways, she was only vaguely aware of the time she had left.  
  
*Fifteen . . . fourteen . . . thirteen . . .*  
  
She could see a faint glow being reflected by the mirrors now, surely a sign of the exit. Her heart pounded in her ears as she skidded around the bends and curves of the maze. Breathing fast, her speeding footsteps counted down.  
  
*Seven . . . six . . . five . . .*  
  
*Just a little farther . . .* her mind willed as she flew down another long passage. There was no sign of the portal out yet, but she knew that she was headed in the right direction. She had to be, or else . . .  
  
*Two . . . one.*  
  
"TIME IS UP!" came a roar from below the labyrinth.  
  
Bulma barely had time to release her next breath when a blinding flash of light engulfed the passage she was in, and all others, forcing her to stop and cry out in pain. Crumpling to the ground, she rubbed her eyes furiously, tears streaming forth. No longer able to see, she judged that the light had been issued from one of Vegeta's sudden bursts of power and had been reflected and magnified by the mirrors. She crawled a little before she found herself able to stand. She leaned her arm against one side of the wall of mirrors, feeling for her way out and still listening for her mechanical saviour over the howling of Vegeta's pursuit. Frantically, she tried to run while temporarily blinded, her clumsy footfalls sounding erratically until . . .  
  
"Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . ."  
  
Bulma summoned all her strength to run to that sound, clambering to the silvery passage and forcing her hand into it. As before, the doorway responded with an electrical charge that singed her hand. With a sharp hiss, she pulled her hand back and started searching for the keypad she knew would be on the wall. Recklessly she began jabbing at the numbered buttons, none of them working. She could hear the screaming of Vegeta's energy approaching ever closer, ever nearer to her with death in its voice.  
  
*I don't want to die . . . this is wrong . . . it's all wrong!* She began pounding upon the panel with increasing intensity, each beating matching the frenzied series of thoughts that pounded in her mind. She hammered on the door, almost able to feel the rush of wind as Vegeta advanced upon her . . .  
  
"THERE WILL BE NO PITY UPON THOSE WHO HAVE SEEN ME! THERE WILL ONLY BE DEATH!!"  
  
Her eyes squeezed shut as she heard his words and knew he was only a few feet behind her. Her pounding became more insistent until she realized its futility.  
  
*"There's no possible way you can win with tactics like that. You are incapable of making a good offensive fighter; therefore you must rely on defence. Because you are pitifully weak, you can't rely on any strength or speed of your own. You must use your opponent's abilities against him, guiding his strengths toward his weaknesses. You must also study his techniques and deduce the vulnerabilities therein. Think on that for a while."*  
  
"Find the weaknesses . . ." she muttered and as her fingers blindly skimmed over the keypad. Her brows suddenly lifted when she found a small crack in the seam, most likely from pounding on it so much. Still making sure of its location with her left hand, she drew her right back and dealt it a swift and painful blow.  
  
It stopped beeping.  
  
The barrier between her and the outside world now down, Bulma exited fleet a foot, leaving only the sparking form of the portal behind and a mountain of regret.  
  
Vegeta stopped when he reached the exit, simply watching Bulma's scrambling, disappearing form leave him, possibly forever. His unveiled features frowned as he looked, though he dared not out step his realm with his face exposed to the world. That would be past the point of no return.  
  
As his hand raised up to place the mask back upon him, he closed his eyes and turned away.  
  
"Damn you, Woman."  
  
-  
  
-  
  
"Concentrate, Videl," Master Roshi instructed, a shine travelling across his dark sunglasses as he lowered his head in a frown of scrutiny.  
  
"I *am* concentrating, Old Man," she ground out from her clenched teeth. Her brows furrowed into a dark scowl even though her eyes were clamped shut. "I'm concentrating, but I don't 'sense' anything." Her tone was becoming quite irked.  
  
"Don't focus your energy on being angry at me," Roshi struck his staff on the ground for emphasis, "focus it on spreading it out and picking up mine."  
  
Videl grumbled a little. "I don't see how this makes those other guys any better fighters than I-wait! There you are! I can sense you!"  
  
"Great," his white beard and moustache twitched to a smile. "Now, try to extend it to sense the others in the next room."  
  
"Right," Videl nodded curtly, still frowning with intensity. She felt her energy slowly expand around her, then mould into the direction of her choosing, through the wall and into the next room. It spread through the entire area, surrounding and detecting the individual presences in the room. She could sense and feel each similar, yet incredibly personal auras of each person: the tough yet caring nature of Piccolo, Chichi's whatever- is-best-for-my-family attitude, Goku's cheering outlook, and Gohan . . . Gohan . . .  
  
Videl's face flushed slightly, though whether from the exertion or from something else could not be determined. She let out a quick, "I can sense them, Master Roshi."  
  
Roshi quirked a knowing brow at the title of 'Master' and her flushed face, but proceeded with the lesson. "All right, Videl," he set down his staff and rolled his head to crack the tense joints, "I'm going to move around this hall like any other fighter you may be put up against would during a battle. I want to you to try and sense me, even though I'm going to be moving very quickly, got it?"  
  
She clenched her fists tightly in preparation. "Ready."  
  
"All right, here I-"  
  
His sentence was interrupted abruptly as a stumbling Bulma rushed through the hall, her speed frighteningly quick for someone who appeared unable to see. Her closed eyes shed tears as she used an arm out in front to guide her to the quickest exit possible. She was gone as quickly as she had entered, and her footsteps echoed irregularly in the corridor.  
  
Videl, her eyes open now from the mysterious passage of the intruder, blinked in slight confusion. "Roshi," she said as she retracted her awareness back to her, "I couldn't sense her."  
  
The old master frowned behind his sunglasses, his mind deep in thought. There was a moment before he answered, "Neither could I."  
  
"But if you couldn't sense her, what does that me-" she cut her statement off as she blinked abruptly, her eyes going slightly out of focus. "There are more people coming . . . Eighteen, that one pretty boy idiot you put on our team, and someone I don't know."  
  
Roshi neglected to compliment her on her skills as he pondered her first statement.  
  
-  
  
-  
  
He could see her blue eyes closing slowly as her lips parted, making room for his. He could envision his own brushing hers softly, then continuing across her cheek, then down her jaw to her neck and back again. He could imagine his hands: one holding her blue-haired head closer, the other trailing down her back. He could just see her inhale sharply and grasp him to her in pleasurable ecstasy. He could just see her, his Bulma, with another, unseen ghost of a man.  
  
Yamcha held his head in his hands and raked his fingers through his cropped, black hair. How long had it been since he had last seen her? Two, maybe three days? No longer could he tell. Without Her, days and nights blurred together, only separated by the few and in-between interrupting reminders that life progressed around him.  
  
Puar was mostly responsible for that, with her sad, yet hopeful dark, kitten eyes that pleaded 'drink this, it'll make you fell better' or 'why don't you go to sleep, I'm sure everything will work out' continuously, despite his lack of reaction to them. What life was there without Bulma?  
  
Of course, Puar constantly reminded him that he had gotten by just fine for five years without her, but Yamcha adamantly responded with a that-was-then- this-is-now attitude. Sure, he had gotten by without Bulma before, but the means by which they parted had been entirely different. Back then, she had cried for him to remember her, with glistening eyes that promised the same for him. Now, oh now, she had disappeared chasing after some other man, some ghost, some figment of the collective populous' imagination, without even looking back to him with regret.  
  
"He must have done something to her," Yamcha pounded his fist on the table before him, making the cup of tea Puar had served him (which was growing colder by the minute) rattle in its saucer. "Some kind of hypnosis, some mind control . . . I know she wouldn't purposely do that to me . . ." the lingering doubt in his tone added an unsaid, 'would she?'  
  
"Bulma would never do that," Puar flew over to perch on his right shoulder, clinging comfortingly to it. "She loves you, Yamcha."  
  
"You really think so?" Yamcha turned his sad fact to his best and oldest friend.  
  
"I know so," Puar smiled at luring out of his lull and getting him to speak to her. "I'm sure she-"  
  
The phone rang.  
  
"Hello?" Yamcha picked up the receiver. His eyes widened in shock as the person on the other end said something. "What do you mean-what?! What the- who is this? Hello? Hello?!"  
  
Puar's fur bristled with anxiety. "What is it, Yamcha?"  
  
He hung the telephone up woodenly, his eyes looking at the floor. "Bulma's back from wherever she was. They saw her at the stadium."  
  
"Could you find out who called?"  
  
"No," Yamcha frowned. "It was some woman, and her voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't really place it. It wasn't Chichi and it definitely wasn't Bulma." He paused, straightening up with a hint of resolve. "I have to go back to the stadium."  
  
Puar nodded, but her face dampened slightly at the idea of yet another separation. "I understand," she said.  
  
Yamcha walked to the door and got as far as turning the knob and opening it a crack before he turned around to the little blue cat. "Are you sure she still feels the same way about me, Puar?"  
  
Puar managed a little smile. "Of course she does. I told you she loves you."  
  
Yamcha gave a more heartened smile and stepped out the door.  
  
"She loves you," Puar repeated to the empty room, "just like me."  
  
-  
  
-  
  
'For exercises 16-29, identify the coordinates of the vertex and focus, the equations of the axis of symmetry and directrix, and the direction of opening of the parabola with the given equation. Then find the length of the latus rectum and graph the parabola.'  
  
Gohan's pencil scratched in his workbook as he solved and sketched each answer. He nibbled on the end of the eraser in thought as he tried to make the side 'x' in to a perfect square. Chichi had luckily remembered to bring his spare book, so even though he had made it out of the house, he was still progressing in his education. Gohan did not really mind, however.  
  
"I don't trust it though, Chichi. We've seen things happen . . . weird things."  
  
"But this is our chance to get ahead. We need this stadium, Goku."  
  
'The reflective surface in a flashlight has a parabolic cross section that can be modelled by y = ½x², where x and y are in centimetres. How far from the vertex should the filament of the light bulb be located?'  
  
.75 cm, his pencil scribbles on the blank provided as the adults talked on, oblivious to his eavesdropping. He did not mind doing so much homework. Whenever his mother made him do homework, she always seemed to think he could not hear anything she said. Gohan smiled inwardly. It was almost like he was a secret agent, picking up information and piecing together another party's motives and activities.  
  
"How far ahead to you expect to get if your own son gets taken out by a falling stadium light?" Piccolo's gruff voice came from the other side of the arena.  
  
"That was just a freak accident. Besides, we can't afford to get out of owning this place. We've invested too much money in it," Chichi insisted.  
  
"Who cares about money if we're putting our lives and the lives of others at risk?" commented Goku.  
  
'When a ball is thrown or kicked, the path it travels is shaped like a parabola. Suppose a football is kicked from ground level, reaches a maximum height of 25 feet, and hits the ground 100 feet from where it was kicked. Assuming that the ball was kicked at the origin, write an equation of the parabola that models the flight of the ball.'  
  
Gohan's pencil scratched more figures in his notebook, each of them looking more complicated and making less sense than the other. His eyes stared at the markings, seemingly analyzing them, while his mind drifted elsewhere.  
  
"We're not putting lives at risk, Goku. You of all people should know that this place is perfectly safe with a former champion of the world tournament here to protect it. And you too Piccolo. I'm surprised that two of the strongest fighters in existence are afraid of a little poltergeist."  
  
"But mom, Dad's not afraid of anything, and Piccolo too," Gohan could not stop himself from saying.  
  
"Gohan," Chichi turned to her son, "what are you doing interrupting your studies eavesdropping on us?"  
  
Gohan dropped his head and started writing faster.  
  
Chichi sighed and rolled her eyes. "Gohan, why don't you just go do your work in the managers' office?"  
  
"But mom," he looked up with a childish plea in his eyes. "I want to work out here . . ."  
  
"Piccolo can join you in there," Chichi bargained, giving a pointed look to the Namek. "You know how I don't like Gohan going off alone . . ."  
  
The tall green man grunted in annoyance, but general acceptance. "Come on, kid."  
  
"Aww, man . . ." Gohan muttered as he picked up his book and followed his mentor's trailing white mantle out of the arena to the office on the other side.  
  
Chichi waited until Gohan and his teacher removed themselves from earshot before she began. "Like I said, if there *is* a Tournament Ghost, and I'm not saying there is, I'm sure he'll be no match for you."  
  
"But Chichi, you don't know that. We haven't even seen him, let alone know how strong he is." He ran a concerned hand through his unruly bangs. "We don't even know what kind of person this Ghost is . . . what his motives are. First the light incident, now Bulma disappearing . . ."  
  
"Goku, we can't do anything about it," Chichi argued, exasperated. "There's no way we can get out of owning this stadium, so why worry about something we can't fix?"  
  
"But what's next? *Who's* next?" he pressed. "Who else will the Ghost take? What has he already done with the person he's taken? I doubt she's just on vacation. We have no way of knowing where she is or what that thing's do-"  
  
The door to the arena swung open, revealing the white-bearded Master Roshi, the pouting Videl, the newly arrived Krillin, Eighteen, and a man with a turned up nose and too-long blonde hair.  
  
"Bulma's back," Roshi said.  
  
-  
  
-  
  
Author's Note: Okay, there's chapter nine. Sorry it was so short, but hey, if I wrote any more, I'd be stepping on chapter ten's lines (God forbid). For those of you who have actually read the novel by Gaston Leroux, you'll notice that nearly all of Vegeta's lines at the mask scene were taken from the chapter 'Apollo's Lyre' in there. I love the book just about as much as I love the musical, and those lines always have a profound effect on me, so I just *had* to use them ^_^. So then, my review counter for the story says I only got ninety-eight reviews, but when I log in, it says I have one hundred, so I'll take the second one. Congratulations to Mrs Baron for being my hundredth reviewer! Nothing much going on here, just that nagging feeling about the AP tests and SATs and ACETs coming up. Ah well . . . can't do anything about that. I shall try to write the next chapter hopefully as quickly as I wrote this one, but it will probably take longer because there's more stuff to squeeze in there. Don't want to give any more away, so I'll keep this relatively short.  
  
Read ZippyDragon*43's 'Romance Idiots with High Ki' 


	10. Notes I and the Reluctance of the Prima ...

Disclaimer: Don't own it; don't ask.  
  
-  
  
Author's Note: Warning - dialogue. Lots and lots of dialogue.  
  
-  
  
Oh yeah, and read ZippyDragon*43's 'Romance Idiots with High Ki'  
  
-  
  
Notes (I) and the Reluctance of the Prima Donna  
  
-  
  
What a way to run a business!  
  
Spare me these unending trials!  
  
Half your cast disappears,  
  
But the crowd still cheers:  
  
Opera!  
  
To hell with Gluck and Handel,  
  
It's a scandal that'll pack 'em in the aisles!  
  
-  
  
-  
  
"What do you mean 'Bulma's back'?"  
  
"She just ran by us in the hall," Eighteen said seriously. "She looked . . . upset," it took her a while to find a word.  
  
"I think she was a little more than upset," Krillin offered. "She looked pretty darn *scared* from what I saw. It looked like she was running from something, and whatever it was, I sure hope I don't see it."  
  
"That's only because you're a weakling," the android spoke with disdain.  
  
"Eagles may soar," Krillin said with false sagacity, "but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines."  
  
"You don't have enough hair to be a weasel," Eighteen countered.  
  
Krillin took a breath signifying he was going to retort to that, but Videl promptly interrupted him. "Would you guys just shut up for five minutes? It's really annoying when you do that."  
  
They frowned at her, slightly miffed.  
  
Chichi took advantage of the quiet. "Where was she headed? Did she leave the stadium?"  
  
"From what I saw, yes," Roshi answered. "And there's something else. These guys found it when the entered the stadium. Jewel, give her the letter." +  
  
The blonde man standing behind Eighteen flung his long hair over his shoulder before reaching his hand into the pocket of his turquoise coloured trousers that he believed complimented the blue in his eyes. Pulling out a primly folded note, he sauntered up and handed it to Chichi with a flirtatious wink.  
  
Her left eye twitched a bit with irritation. "Another one of your team members, Roshi?"  
  
"How did you guess?"  
  
The man took it upon himself to start the introduction. He bowed a little and kissed Chichi's hand. "Beautiful lady, my name is--"  
  
"Jewel. I know," the raven-haired woman snapped her hand back from him curtly. "I picked that up when your master said your name." She stretched out her arm and yanked Goku toward her. "And I'm happily married, thank you." Goku smiled and waved.  
  
Jewel backed up a little, startled at her abruptness. Slightly disappointed, he slunk back in line with the others. Videl stuck out her tongue at him and held out her hand impatiently with a look that said, 'I win. Pay up.' He passed her five dollars, trying to be inconspicuous. The girl gave a satisfied smile and stuffed the money in her pocket. Chichi, now satisfied with Jewel's distance from her, unfolded the note, and her eyes narrowed as she read it.  
  
"Let me see, Chichi," Goku pleaded over her shoulder.  
  
"Don't do that," she shoved his head back, but gently. "It gets on my nerves and makes it hard to read." Her eyes continued to scan. Her mood seemed to sour the further she read, and a small vein started to emerge on the right side of her forehead. Nearly shredding the letter in disgust, she slapped it into Goku's hands and stepped aside to try and calm herself.  
  
"What does it say, Goku?" Krillin asked, curious about Chichi's attitude.  
  
Goku cleared his throat:  
  
-  
  
"*Dear Managers:  
  
Perhaps you did not read my previous letter carefully. I informed you that I require a monthly salary of five thousand zeni, which, I may remind you, I have not received in its entirety yet. You may have noticed that Ms Chichi is missing a sum of thirty-seven hundred, sixty-three zeni from her hand bag, but I still require the other twelve-hundred, thirty-seven. Once again, you may leave it on your desk after you leave the stadium for the night. We all know that no one likes a lingering debtor, so let's try to pay promptly.  
  
A simple reminder,  
  
T.G.*"  
  
-  
  
Goku blinked at the paper in curiosity. "Chichi, you didn't tell me we were missing mo--"  
  
"THAT THEIF! THAT DIRTY THIEF! HE HAS THE GALL TO TAKE MONEY OUT OF MY PURSE RIGHT UNDER MY NOSE!! THEN HE HAS THE AUDACITY TO ASK FOR MORE! I SWEAR, IF I EVER GET MY HANDS ON HIM . . ."  
  
The man, Jewel, snickered in the doorway. "It looks like that bothersome Phantom of the Tournament's shown up again."  
  
"Phantom of the Tournament?" Eighteen asked.  
  
"You mean the Tournament Ghost, right?" Chichi queried, taking deep breaths to calm herself from her ranting.  
  
"Some people call him that," Jewel inwardly beamed with all then new attention now directed at him, especially by beautiful women like Chichi and Eighteen. "But he's also known as the Phantom of the Tournament, especially by the detectives who investigated this place about six years ago. You may have read about it in the papers, but that was nothing compared to what it was like being there."  
  
"How do you know all of this stuff?" Krillin quirked a brow dubiously.  
  
Jewel raised his nose with a smug smile. "My father was one of those investigators. Captain, actually."  
  
"Well, what did they find?" Eighteen snapped impatiently.  
  
"I'm getting there, I'm getting there," the blonde man put his hands out in front of him in a gesture that said for the android to contain herself. "The team went to check this stadium out when the police force received complaints about possible Mafia activity here."  
  
"The Kold Mafia?" Chichi asked anxiously.  
  
"Kold Mafia?" Videl questioned.  
  
"Yes. You're too young to really know anything about them," Jewel patted her on the head, slightly insultingly for the little girl, "but there were rumours about them setting up the fights and accepting bribes and other junk like that. But by the time the police had sent the investigation team over to look in on it, a whole bunch of stuff had already gone down."  
  
"Like what?" Goku asked, a quiet concern upon his features.  
  
"Well, for starters, there were two dead bodies lying on the ring." Jewel folded his arms across his chest and smiled, as though he were proud of being able to be the only one capable of relaying this information. "Turns out they were two of the members of Team Frieza. A big fat pink guy named Dodoria and a little purple shrimp named Kui."  
  
"Well, isn't that good? I mean, everyone knows that the Kold Mafia was bad to the last bone," Krillin stated. "An enemy of the enemy is a friend, right?"  
  
"Not necessarily," Roshi pulled himself out of his abnormally quiet mode, only to sink quickly back into it.  
  
"Right," Jewel continued. "When the team was investigating the bodies and pulling them out, they found that they had been killed by a cut across their necks, and it looked like it had been singed around the edges."  
  
"An energy blast," Goku said.  
  
"Yeah. Not only that, but when they were cleaning up the mess, they heard some strange noises around them. The doors suddenly flew open and the lights shut off totally. They were told by a voice that came from all around the room saying that they had to leave if they didn't want to end up like the guys they were trying to take out of there."  
  
"Cowards," Videl snorted.  
  
"And I'm guessing they skedaddled pretty fast," Krillin summed it up with a frown. "This isn't good. Not good at all."  
  
Chichi could no longer take it. "Oh, come *on*! You're telling me you all believe in this ghost crap? You of all people, Krillin, should know where this note came from!"  
  
"Me?!" Krillin's eyes widened in shock at the accusation.  
  
"Of course you! You've been fraternising with enemy this whole time! Don't think I didn't know about you and Eighteen!" she pointed her finger at the android harshly.  
  
Eighteen's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Excuse me?"  
  
"You know exactly what I mean! Don't think I don't know about the little 'relationship' you two have going on right under our noses! Why, I've had half a mind to kick you off the team, Krillin! You know it's against the rules to date opponents. And I expected Eighteen would know better."  
  
"Now you listen here," Eighteen started up in defence of Krillin. "You can't just--"  
  
"WHERE IS SHE?!"  
  
"Yamcha?" Goku looked toward the door. "Yamcha, what are you doing here?"  
  
"Where is she?!" the scarred fighter pressed as he stormed in, forcing all those by the door out of his path.  
  
"Who?" Krillin asked, stepping aside, but holding onto Yamcha's arm to restrain him from attempting to trample Goku and his wife.  
  
"Bulma!" Yamcha shouted as he struggled in the smaller fighter's grip. "Where is Bulma?!"  
  
"Well, how should we know?" Eighteen said drolly.  
  
"I want an answer!" Yamcha screamed furiously, waving a piece of paper in his hand. "At least one of you must have sent me this note!"  
  
Videl scrunched her face up, confused. "What the heck's going on here?"  
  
"What's all this nonsense?" Roshi commented from the right side of the doorway.  
  
"Of course we didn't!" Chichi bustled back.  
  
"Don't look at us!" Goku put up his hands in mock surrender.  
  
"She's not with you then?" Yamcha said, still worked up and slightly untrusting of what his managers had to say.  
  
"No," Chichi said, her frown increasing. "We're in the dark."  
  
"Don't argue with me!" Yamcha shouted, crossing the line between sceptical and accusatory. "Isn't this the letter you wrote?!"  
  
"What letter?" Goku asked, helping Krillin hold the other fighter still.  
  
Chichi took the letter from the distraught fighter's hand, reading aloud.  
  
-  
  
"*Do not worry about Ms Briefs. She is perfectly safe. Make no attempt to see her again.*"  
  
-  
  
"But if you didn't write it," Yamcha puzzled, now visibly calming down, "who did?"  
  
"Mom?" the pondering silence was cut short as Gohan entered the room with a slightly bewildered look on his face. Piccolo followed behind him, his eyes giving off that hard, determined look he had when he had just seen something he did not like.  
  
"Not now, Gohan," Chichi said. "We're trying to figure out something important."  
  
"Mom, I think this *is* important," he tugged on Chichi's dress to further get her attention. "There was a note in your office for you."  
  
That caught her interest. Gohan held out the letter in his little hand and Chichi snatched it up quickly.  
  
"What does it say?" Goku asked. "Read it."  
  
"*Ms Chichi,*" the wife of Goku complied, her face wearing an unnerved look.  
  
-  
  
"*Your son's days of being the star of the tournaments are numbered. Your newest addition, Miss Briefs, will soon be taking his place. It would be extremely unfortunate if you were to disagree, for if you attempt to replace her with Gohan, he may find it difficult to fight again.  
  
Just a warning,  
  
T.G.*"  
  
-  
  
Chichi's face was sheet white as she finished.  
  
"Hmm . . ." Roshi frowned in concentration. "What we have here are a series of notes, probably written by the same person . . . and most of them about Bulma."  
  
"Ever since we signed her up, there's been nothing but talk about her . . ." Chichi lamented.  
  
"I know," Krillin sighed. "How are the rest of the fighters like us supposed to keep up a reputation for ourselves if we're outshined by a little girl?"  
  
"She's older than you are," Eighteen added in, "so I wouldn't be calling her little."  
  
"Oh, I don't think she's all that little . . . not little at all . . ." Roshi switched his attitude suddenly, thinking of her bounding down the hallway. "She seemed pretty grown up . . . and bouncy . . ." a slight nosebleed developed.  
  
Jewel chuckled slightly, and both of the fantasizing men were whapped across their heads by an irritated Eighteen.  
  
"Perverts," she said.  
  
"Hey!" Roshi and Jewel complained in unison.  
  
"You could at least let an old man fantasize a *little* before he goes by the wayside . . ." Roshi tried to gain a little sympathy.  
  
"You know as well as we do that you're not dying any time soon," Krillin pointed out.  
  
"Aren't young people supposed to respect their elders?" Roshi retorted.  
  
"With you, there's close to nothing to re-"  
  
"Quiet you idiots!" Piccolo finally spoke to silence the entire room. "Look," he commanded, pointing a finger to the ceiling; all eyes followed.  
  
The slight rufflings of a tiny piece of paper echoed near the ceiling of the arena, the note fluttering downward and leading all nine pairs of eyes down with it. Slowly, it settled to the ground. For a moment, no one moved or said anything.  
  
"LET ME SEE IT!!" nearly all of them shouted in unison.  
  
"Calm down!" the Namek barked, halting them in their tracks. "*I* will read it."  
  
-  
  
"*Ladies and Gentlemen,  
  
I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature (that I can muster dealing with you imbeciles), detailing how my stadium is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance.  
  
As you already know, Miss Briefs has returned, and I am anxious that her fighting career should progress in the grand opening of this stadium. You will, therefore, have this line-up:  
  
Round one:  
  
-  
  
Android Seventeen versus Tien - winner, Tien  
  
Android Eighteen versus Yamcha - winner, Android Eighteen  
  
Android Sixteen versus Gohan - winner, Gohan  
  
Jewel versus Bulma - winner, Bulma  
  
Videl versus Chaozu - winner, Chaozu  
  
Yajerobi versus Krillin - winner, Krillin  
  
-  
  
Round two:  
  
-  
  
Tien versus Android Eighteen - winner, Android Eighteen  
  
Gohan versus Krillin - winner, Krillin  
  
Bulma versus Chaozu - winner, Bulma  
  
-  
  
Round three:  
  
-  
  
Android Eighteen versus Krillin - winner, Krillin  
  
Bulma versus Krillin - winner, Bulma  
  
-  
  
This way, in the final bout, Miss Briefs would have a guaranteed win. This would, indeed, please the crowd immensely, thereby providing you with more viewers for the next tournament you have, which makes my casting, in a word, ideal. Do not worry about the line-up being random when the numbers are chosen; I'm sure the little psychic Chaozu can fix that. I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in the north tier, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.  
  
I remain, Ladies and Gentlemen, your obedient servant,  
  
T.G.*"  
  
-  
  
There was a pause as Piccolo folded the note.  
  
"Bulma!" Chichi finally shouted. "It's all a ploy to help Bulma!"  
  
"This is insane," Eighteen said.  
  
"I know who sent this," Goku's wife seethed. "Yamcha! Her lover!" her finger jabbed toward him with the accusation.  
  
"What?!" Yamcha shouted back. "No way! I can't believe you'd think that!" He turned to the others in the room. "You can't believe this!"  
  
"Lover?" the others questioned, shocked.  
  
"Chichi, that's impossible!" Goku tried to keep his wife still, gripping her shoulders as she struggled to attack their scarred fighter. "He was right here the whole time! He couldn't have written the letter!"  
  
"Traitor!" Chichi screamed at Yamcha. "You lying traitor!"  
  
"This all has to be some sick joke," Krillin said. "First off, there's no way I can beat Gohan, and second, I'm not going to lose to Bulma again!"  
  
"And like you could ever beat me in a match," Eighteen scoffed.  
  
"Hey, now wait a minute. *That* could actually happen." Krillin huffed.  
  
"Keep dreaming," the android said coolly.  
  
"This guy's crazy," Videl commented. "I can't lose in the first round like that! It doesn't matter who I'm fighting! I'm finals material!"  
  
"Chichi, Chichi, calm down," Goku struggled to pin down both his wife's arms and hold her close. "We're not going to take these orders anyway, no matter who wrote them. The fighters will be picked at random, just like they always are."  
  
"No, we can't do that!" Chichi turned on him. "Why are you just trying to appease me?! You're just trying to make *me* happy! What about Gohan?! What about your son?!"  
  
"Chichi," Goku tried to soothe his squirming wife, "it's just a note. Just a piece of paper . . ."  
  
"'. . . if you attempt to replace her with Gohan, he may find it difficult to fight again,'" Chichi quoted nervously. "Goku, this guy's going to try to hurt our son! Don't you care about that?!"  
  
"Gohan will be fine. He's a strong boy."  
  
"But we don't know exactly what we're up against," Chichi's eyes took on a frightened look. "If Yamcha didn't write these notes, who did? We don't know! This person could be stronger than all of us combined!"  
  
"Or he could be weaker than the smallest of us," Goku added in. "I don't think we should worry about it. If this guy's that strong and he's been around here giving us these notes, we would have sensed him. We haven't felt any unusual energy signals since we got here. Whoever it is, they don't have a power level high enough to even be sensed."  
  
"Or he really *is* a ghost," Jewel commented.  
  
"There's no such thing as a ghost," Videl sneered. "Besides, if it were a ghost, he couldn't touch us, right? He'd pass right through us."  
  
"But if he can send us notes," Chichi worried, "then he can obviously touch and carry things without difficulty, so what's stopping him from harming us?"  
  
"Maybe he can only touch inanimate objects?" Krillin suggested.  
  
"I doubt it," Jewel said.  
  
"Oh for the love of--if this guy were any threat to us," Eighteen finally barked out, "it would have been easy for any one of us to sense him. The very fact that none of us have secures our safety. I say we just continue the tournament as planned."  
  
Yamcha and Piccolo looked dubious. "I'm not sure it's wise to just brush this kind of thing off . . ." the Namek warned.  
  
Yamcha thought back to when he had seen that disturbing image of Bulma passing through the mirror and disappearing from sight. "I agree. I don't think we should take any chances here."  
  
"Look," the little Videl pouted, "it's just some weirdo writing notes to get money and to see some pretty girl bounce around on a tournament ring. It's not something to get so worked up about."  
  
Krillin, standing beside the young Satan, looked at her a little strangely for even suggesting something so adult. "Maybe we should look into this a little more. Do some undercover work or something."  
  
"That's not a bad idea," Master Roshi agreed.  
  
"Yes, but what will we do in the meantime? There are only a few more days until the grand opening," Chichi fretted. "And what if something happens before then? What if this guy tries to come after us, after Gohan?"  
  
"Chichi, we'll take care of it," Goku said soothingly. "Piccolo and I are a pretty good match against almost anyone, and with the rest of the team, I think we're pretty much invincible. No one in their right mind would try to pull something with all these great fighters around."  
  
"But that's just it," Yamcha said. "We don't know if this guy's in his right mind."  
  
"He's not," Jewel said with sarcastic optimism.  
  
"Guys," Goku insisted, "there's nothing to worry about. No one is going to get hurt. This guy seems to be extra cautious, what with keeping out of sight and sensing, and probably wouldn't want to blow his cover just yet. That'll give us more time to find out more about him with the plan Krillin had."  
  
"Wow, Goku," Krillin said, "that was actually really smart deducing there."  
  
"Really?" Goku laughed, putting his hand behind his head. "You think so?"  
  
"Would you guys stay on task here?" Chichi put her hands on her hips. "By ignoring this, we're putting Gohan in danger . . . and everyone else too."  
  
"But Chichi," Krillin stepped forward, "I think Goku's onto something. I don't think this ghost guy wants to chance it just yet."  
  
"Of course he doesn't," Videl scoffed. "He knows we'd kick his butt."  
  
"I second that," Eighteen smirked.  
  
"You know, maybe Goku's right," Yamcha consented.  
  
"It does make sense," Roshi nodded sagely.  
  
"Yeah, maybe so," Jewel smiled. "And it might be nice to shove the Phantom's orders back down his throat."  
  
"Well, It looks like you're outnumbered, Chichi," Goku said after a pause in the agreements. "What do you say we just forget these notes happened, okay?"  
  
"Personally, I think you should ask Gohan's opinion on it first," Piccolo grumbled. "After all, he was the only one directly threatened in any of the letters."  
  
"Gohan, sweetie, what do you think about all of this?" Chichi turned to ask her son.  
  
"Hmm?" Gohan snapped his head up from the book with which he had occupied himself. "About all of what?"  
  
The group sweatdropped.  
  
"Okay, I guess that means he's for us," Goku picked up the conversation again.  
  
"No he isn't," Chichi frowned. "He didn't even know what we were talking about."  
  
"Gohan," Goku smiled in an effort to convince his son to join him, "you always want your fights to be fair, right?"  
  
"Well, yeah," Gohan answered as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and, in a sense, it was.  
  
"That settles it then," Goku said with a slight smugness. "The fights will be chosen fair and square, and the Tournament Ghost can cry about it all he wants; we're not going to change it."  
  
"Okay, Goku," Chichi glared at her husband askance, "you win this time. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. Or give you fifteen-course meals every day."  
  
Goku gulped. "You wouldn't . . ." his eyes widened, frightened.  
  
"Oh wouldn't I?" Chichi grinned evilly. "From now on, I'm cutting your meals to five courses. No buts," she quelled her husband's protests.  
  
"Well that was a big waste of time arguing," Eighteen hmphed.  
  
"At least we agreed on something," Krillin countered.  
  
"Pretty surprising since it took you forever to pick a side," the android looked down at the ex-monk.  
  
"Hey, it pays to be able to see both sides of the argument!"  
  
"Yeah," she crossed her arms, "but it takes forever."  
  
"Do you guys always have to argue?" Videl rolled her eyes. "You practically sound like you're married. Why don't you two just get a room?"  
  
"We do not act like that at all!" Eighteen retorted to the little Satan's impudence. "I told you guys before, you can't just assume that were together just because--" she was swiftly pulled out the door by a rushing Krillin, leaving the sound of a rushed out,  
  
"You heard the girl . . . let's go!"  
  
"Oh, like that wasn't obvious," Videl snorted at the now closed door  
  
"I'd probably be in a rush too," Roshi smiled lecherously, "if I could get my hands on something pretty like that . . ."  
  
Jewel gazed dazedly at the ceiling in agreement while visions of blonde androids danced in his head.  
  
"But Chichi! Come on!" Goku whined. "Aren't you being a little harsh?"  
  
"No buts!" Chichi sternly waggled her finger at him.  
  
Gohan sighed and closed his book at the cacophony around him. He looked up at his mentor but was surprised to see him scowling darkly.  
  
"Fools," Piccolo muttered under his breath and shook his head. "They've declared war on an opponent they can't even begin to comprehend. If these demands are not met, disaster will surely strike." Turning swiftly, he exited out the back with a flutter of his mantle. "They're all fools . . ."  
  
-  
  
-  
  
*I was so foolish.*  
  
The room was silent, but for the incessant ticking of the wall clock and the slight buzz of the flickering lights. The assumed silence around her seemed to scream as she rocked herself gently on the edge of her bed, her knees clasped tightly up to her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, keeping her head on the floor, trying to keep from looking at things that would remind her. The mirror, the white marble-like tiles of her bathroom, the deep, dark, almost black blue of her curtains, the darkness . . .  
  
Bulma's eyes snapped open, her breathing sharp from the sudden fear of the blackness of her closed eyes. She gripped herself tighter, feeling like she would fly apart if she did not. Her eyes darted around the room, but everything seemed to remind her of him, of his madness. They settled for falling to light blue fibres of the floor.  
  
A rumpled red dress greeted her gaze, and she slammed her eyes shut again.  
  
*Red . . . just like the blood on his hands . . .*  
  
Bulma shivered, but was not cold.  
  
". . . might be sick. She didn't seem like herself when she came in."  
  
"I'm sure she's just tired from wherever she's been," Dr. Briefs' voice drifted from the hallway. "She's been gone a while and has probably been through a lot, but I'm sure she'll explain it to us when she's ready."  
  
"I hope you're right, dear," Mrs. Briefs had a little worried trill added to her normally chirrupy voice. "She looked so pale and thin when she came in; I just wonder if she'll be all right. She didn't even perk up when I told her I had washed that red dress she likes so much. You know, her favourite one. I'm concerned."  
  
"Whatever's bothering her," the doctor said in a voice that resonated both sagacity and a sense of uncertainty, "I'm sure she'll tell us in due time. Right now I think she just needs her rest. Maybe you should make something special for dinner."  
  
"Ooh," his wife pulled herself out of her funk slightly, "I think . . . I think I know just what to do."  
  
"Well, don't hurt yourself now, dear."  
  
Mrs. Briefs' voice practically fluttered back to its normal optimism. "I'll start with a soufflé. Bulma loves soufflés. And then maybe I'll add a little . . ."  
  
The voices faded away from her bedroom door and Bulma was once again left alone. She tried her best to purge her thoughts from those incessant images that continued to surface through her mind, but failed. Dark bottomless wells of hatred glared at her through an unveiled, snarling face continuously, pursuing her through an inescapable labyrinth. Wherever she turned for help she only saw her own fear reflected back at her, painful tears distorting her vision. She could hear the roars of venomous ire behind her, closing in on her as her feet could not carry her fast enough away. And, just when she felt there was no escaping this nightmare, that nothing could be more dreadful than the fear of him and his madness, his hatred, his distortion of what she thought she had with him, the light that she hoped for, that might signify an end, an escape, exploded all around her. Her eyes burned and for a moment she could only see red, bloody red, and she almost believed she had died and lay in the blood of those he killed, before it all went black and only the pain told her she was still alive.  
  
Mirrors and marble, royal blue curtains and wretched darkness. The red . . . the red . . .  
  
*I'll never go back.*  
  
-  
  
-  
  
+ Hey, remember this guy? Yeah, it's the blonde dude that fought Android Eighteen during the Buu saga at the World Martial Arts Tournament. The one that got kicked in the face.  
  
Author's Note: Phew! That was a lot of talking, wot? Sorry to bore you with it, but it's a necessary part of the story. If you notice, I combined two songs in here, mostly because attempting to put a transition between the two would prove most difficult. Also . . . I'm just about as eager as you are to see the grand opening tournament. Ooh . . . I can't wait to start writing that. But of course, that doesn't mean it'll be showing up immediately. Anyway, enough of my nonsense! Go and tell me what you think!  
  
~ Chunks 


End file.
